It had been a long time since my eyes had caught the brilliance of a wall creeper. I was a young girl when my Papa took me on a rock hunting mission. Papa was always busy making something. On this day he wanted to make a rock wall for the neighbors.

I loved doing anything with my Papa. He always told me stories, stories which were, for the most part, about God. My Papa could make God seem so interesting, unlike those stuffy Rabbi’s.

We were trudging through the rocks when Papa grabbed my hand and stopped me. He put his finger to his lips as if to shush me. Problem was, I wasn’t saying anything.

His eyes sparkled with mystery as he pointed up to a crevice in the rocks. He acted like there was something magical in the dusty gray crevices of the mountain rock.

I searched the area, gazing intently, I could see nothing worthy of Papa’s attention.

“What is it, Papa?” I asked. His handgrip tightened, the pressure brought tears to my eyes.

He bent down to whisper in my ear. “See that bird, right above the crevice?”

“That ugly grey bird you mean?”

I didn’t see anything magical about that bird. It was a softish grey bird, quite common in its appearance except for a slight streak of Crimson running down its wing. The Crimson looked like the blood of an open wound.

Papa found a rock to sit on and gently pulled me into his lap. “Be still my love and watch the “ugly grey bird”.

So I watched the bird. It skipped along the rock wall, foraging for insects.

I was getting bored. I thought to mention to Papa that we had not yet gathered any rocks. I nestled into his embrace and glanced one more time at the boring bird.

The bird hopped and skipped around a bit more and the red on his wings caught my eye. Then the magic happened. The bird thrust out it’s wings and took flight .

“Oh, Papa,” I exclaimed. “It is beautiful!” I jumped off of my Papa’s lap and the bird circled around us as if to prove its beauty to me.

I was ecstatic.

The painting of Crimson on the wings was breathtaking. The accent of black on the tip of the wing contrasted with  white polka dot was sharp in detail. I was speechless as I marveled at the undercarriage of feathers.

I twirled round and round, as the bird and I danced, trying to capture the memory of each other.

My Papa caught my joy. Soon my Papa and I were dancing under the noonday sun. The bird was circling above us as if  choreographing our dance.

We continued to dance and giggle, drunk with joy at the discovery of nature’s beauty. We finally collapsed in a heap at the base of the rocky mountain and fell asleep.

We awoke as the sun was  cresting the hill of that day and had begun its descent into sunset.

We hurried back home, scared we would be late for dinner. Neither one of us wanting to be chided by Mama.

It didn’t occur to me until I was nestled in my bed that evening that Papa and I hadn’t even brought one rock home that day.