One Whistle

Iris sits on the fire escape. Below her, Grand Street is hot and loud. Iris wants one thing: she wants to whistle.

She puts her lips together. She blows. Only air comes out.

She waits. She tries again. This time there is a little noise, very small and very short. A gray bird on the next window looks at her.

“Not yet,” Iris says to the bird. “But it’s better.”

She looks at the sky. She puts her lips together again. She blows.

And there it is! A whistle. High and long and clean. The bird opens its wings and flies away.

“Mom!” Iris shouts. “Mom, come here! I can whistle!”

Her mother comes to the window. “Show me,” she says.

Iris puts her lips together. She blows.

Only air.

“Where did it go?” Iris says.