Birdcage

   Monday afternoon my back was still hurting from sitting on an overinflated ball (long story) so I arrived at the nursing home a bit early for my usual visit and found Mom parked in her geri chair in the hallway, unaware she was waiting her turn for a shower.
   Her hospice aide was passing through, saw me headed to her and turned back from wherever she was headed to assure me that Mom was "next up" but we had "plenty of time: Don't rush."
   My glimpse of this aide, whom I hadn't met before because normally she bathes Mom in the morning, left an impression of capacity, approaching middle age, strong softness. A welcoming, reassuring, red-headed woman.
   But crouching beside Mom's geri chair in the hall is never comfortable, and this day, there was no way my back could let me; fortunately the home has several seating areas we could wheel into, including "the birds" — a cul-de-sac with chairs arrayed before a large acrylic finch aviary.
   I think that this bird terrarium (it's a wooden cabinet with clear windows and narrow doors that can admit a human body) represents the tip of a subcultural iceberg: Somebody at the home must be a fincher, infatuated with zebra finches. I think this because, while trying to find the proper term for the home's bird box-cage, I Googled around and almost at once fell down a rabbit hole of zebra finchery.
   Unobserved among us ordinary folk, aficionados of the zebra finch go pleasantly about their obsessions, documenting themselves for one another on sites like Finchworld, eFinch, Finch Niche. They are dimly noticeable to Muggles only when they own a certain sort of semi-public but protected space and set up an aviary in it — like the one in Mom's nursing home. I found a website where people had posted plans for several aviaries just like her home's, along with photos of people erecting them.
   Also, at Savers, I found a 25-cent book about raising zebra finches.
   So there you go: Proof.
   The population in the nursing home's aviary-box-cage thing waxed during the winter, rising to what looked like 11 of the orange-cheeky pipers. But on Monday, only two finches were visible, and they had tucked themselves into a straw nest behind a silk flower.
   Also, the box held a pair of mourning doves, one of whom regarded us disdainfully, rotating an orange eye socket.
   Mom and I perched there talking about what good teeth I have and whether or not I have a car and we could go to my house, when a 5-foot-9-inch janitor-looking fellow arrived and thumped a package of cedar chips atop the box. The impact created a literal flurry of alarm inside. Birds peeped and fluttered before settling, uneasily, on the dowel-rod swing. On a chair behind us, he set a bottle of window cleaner, a shop rag and some sprays of purple silk flowers.
   I moved Mom back from what I had incorrectly supposed were the sturdy glass walls of the box to get out of his way. And then we watched as he went rapidly about spraying down those wobbly acrylic windows and wiping them clear.
   I asked how often he does the bird maintenance, and he said something confusing: "This month I'm doing all this month on the second Monday every other week."
   Eventually he unclasped the door and ducked awkwardly inside the box. He had to turn and stoop to step sideways though the narrow door. Suddenly there were four zebra finches and the two doves frantically beating around his head. Imagine King Kong and the airplanes.
   This was different enough that Mom actually noticed.
   "He can't let them out," she said. "Let's go to your house."
   I know how tall he was because I asked him after he emerged.
   Also, he said, yes, it smells in there, but not too much.