Purple Boa Feather

September 2019

A feathered boa isn’t out of place on the shelves of a Party City, plastic wrapping clinging to it as it waits patiently for someone to purchase it. It isn’t out of place on the neck of a drag queen, on her way to a late night performance downtown. But there it was, wedged in a rusted tree gate, tucked amongst dirt, weeds and a dirty orange traffic cone, waiting for its excavation, perhaps to return to its owner. 

Maybe its owner is a bride-to-be, dressed in a short white dress for a Friday night bachelorette party out on the town. As she struts along 6th Street, heels clacking and elbows looped tightly with those of her bridesmaids, she’s stared at from behind a veil of cigarette smoke, the owners a trio of men outside a dive bar. And maybe they call to the women, “where are you off to darlings?” and “don’t you girls look pretty?” The feathers on the boas on their shoulders cling to the fine thread holding them in place, connecting the girls like a game of Red Rover 15 years too late. 

But maybe one falls off, down into a tree grate on the edge of the sidewalk, folding into itself as it settles in. The feather continues to listen to the men, long after the girls walk off, their last time together as that gaggle of girls. 

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Or maybe its owner is a sorority girl, headed home after a 70s-themed night at the bar one late Saturday. Her bare feet trounce along the uneven concrete, sandals laced between the fingers of her right hand, her left intertwined with her boyfriend’s. The warm breeze of an early September night sweeps her cheeks as she closes her eyes, letting the hand holding hers guide her back to her apartment. The boa hangs loosely in the crook of her elbow, one edge of it dragging on the dirty ground. 

As she veers too close to the road, her glittered eyelids still shut, the boa catches on the tiny limb of a tree, a few feathers floating in the wind, one falling down into the grate three feet away. It flutters a gentle goodbye as the girl and her boy continue down the sidewalk, arms swinging in the moonlight. 

But maybe the feather belongs to a 5-year-old girl, loosely gripping the hand of her mother as they walk side-by-side on their way to Sunday brunch. She insisted on wearing her princess dress today, the one with the purple tulle skirt. Her mother said, “Cee, you’ll get hot in that dress.” But she didn’t care. Real princesses wore dresses no matter the weather. 

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When her mother lets go to answer a text, the little girl skips forward, dancing around brittle trees and parking meters. The end of the boa floats gently behind her, the rest of it clinging to her small neck, Parisian-style. She flounces and flows until her mother hollers, “slow down, kid!” 

As she waits for her mother to catch up, she clicks her heels and picks at the boa, finding a feather to yank and toss away. “He loves me,” she says wistfully, as she tosses the feather into the space beside her. It floats past the rough purple fabric on her skirt, her lavender-clad nails, and lands beside her lilac satin ballet flats shifting along the grate in impatience. 

And maybe that feather will stay there, juxtaposing its duller companions. Or maybe it’ll float away, gliding in the wind next to a Subway employee on his way to work, or a student late to class. Oh Little Feather, where will you go next?