When Karry was pregnant with Emma, people would ask Peter, who was three at the time, whether he wanted a little brother or a little sister.
His answer was always the same.
“No.”
That one still cracks me up.
I mean, for a three-year-old … that’s a glorious comeback, right there.
And when I called Karry’s Mom from the hospital to let her know it was, in fact, a girl … and Betty, in turn, informed Peter (who she was watching while we were at the hospital), he made a beeline for the kitchen sink, climbed in the space underneath it, and shut the door behind him.
Years later, whenever people would ask me about our kids, I’d find myself saying, “My son’s ____ (16 … 18 … 20, etc.) , and he’s still getting used to the fact that he has a little sister.”
All of the above, true.
So … to be gathered around the table last night in our tiny dining room, surrounded by all our Christmas and life clutter …
… the four of us slow-savoring every bite of the by-request chocolate meringue flourless cake big brother made his little sister for her 20th birthday …
… listening to them geeking out with each other about the cake’s cross section …
… him sharing with her how the recipe’s author discovered how to do the marbling on top, and how he was meticulous in following the directions … for fear of all the inherent gluten-free and dairy-free landmines …
… how he’s never been one to follow directions … a proud by-product of the Fordyce stubborness he comes by honestly …
… getting to bear witness to a big brother’s pride in receiving his little sister’s approval.
Forgive me if it’s gonna take me awhile to get used to that fact.
I mean, that he wanted to get it just right for her.
Let’s just say … such sweetness is worth the wait.
I walked into the kitchen and saw one banana pulled apart from the bunch … set aside and ripening.
Smiled.
Emma’s home.
Went back a couple minutes later and she was there, fixing herself a bowl of cereal at the sink. Still in her pajamas. Wearing her glasses, too.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her in her glasses. Felt what I feel sometimes glancing out the window just as the sun is waking up through the trees … a riot of itself and all its possibilities.
The unearned gift of catching the fleeting moment just before it assumes its responsibilities for a day that will all but take it for granted.
For some reason, seeing her in her glasses has always melted me.
How they’ve always framed a face that holds all the world can become.
She’s only herself in the morning … all poor eyesight and barefoot … and an abiding love for Lucky Charms.
Her glasses bring her into focus for me, and for a fleeting moment, I catch a glimpse of all her younger selves. The ones she doesn’t like being reminded of because she’s too busy looking forward.
It’s for me to look back.
I find myself wanting to keep her in her glasses in the kitchen for as long as I can.
So I mention the bananas … not just the ripe one set aside, but all the ones in the bunch, which have been pulled apart from each other and are starting to brown in the basket.
“I didn’t pull all those apart,” she corrected me.
I just assumed she had.
“Wasn’t me,” she confirmed.
“And that’s not how you ripen bananas, anyway. You keep the bunch together and put a ripe banana beside them.”
Oh.
“Ripe bananas release ethylene. It’s a gas … which breaks down cell walls and converts starch into sugar, eliminating the acid … which causes the other bananas to ripen.”
When she finished, the sophomore biomed major used her index finger to straighten the right side of her glasses, unconsciously.
A riot of herself and all of her possibilities.
Turned around and went back to her old room to savor her Lucky Charms.
I stood in the kitchen for a moment … in the still warm space between her presence and her absence.
Neither looking back nor looking forward … just awed by the sunrise.
Visited Longwood Gardens (just south of Philly) with Karry and Emma last Saturday. It’s in the category of places I would never choose to visit of my own volition, so am grateful to be carried along in the current of their enthusiasms. It may be the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited. I know this to be true based on the number of times I said WOW as an involuntary response. Been thinking since about how the WOWs were exactly the same size whether I was stepping back to look up at a sinewy redwood gathering to its greatness, leaning in to inhale a climbing rose’s secrets, or riveted in place listening to a catbird singing Saturday morning opera.
The place is sprawling, and there was a moment where Karry and Em headed to the conservatory (and its greenhouse of a thousand WOWs), while I went to track down a waterfall we’d seen only at a distance. Traced a canopied path (WOW) to a small landing a few feet from the middle of the waterfall, where I found an empty rocking chair.
So I sat and listened for a hundred years, by which I mean almost long enough.
Twenty-four hours later I’d exchanged the rocking chair for my backseat nook in Karry’s Jeep, where I was comfortably crammed for the long pilgrimage home so Em could finally begin savoring her summer. We’d either grossly over-estimated the Jeep’s storage capacity, or grossly under-estimated our daughter’s belongings. Or both. On our way outta town, they paused so I could enjoy a Father’s Day bagel and lox for the ride. I tuned into a radio program just as the interviewees were referencing Harry James, who was my Dad’s inspiration on trumpet growing up. The Universe’s serendipity game is indeed strong.
I was as comfy and content as a rocking chair by a waterfall.
Just wanted to bookmark a Father’s Day weekend that pretty much perfectly summed up the gig.
Carried on the current of their enthusiasms to places beyond my capacity to even imagine. Involuntary WOWs everywhere, if you only remember to look up, lean in, and listen. Grateful for the small wedge still reserved for me in the back seat of their adventures.
“What time should we leave?” Emma, the organized one, asked me the night before, whereupon I did the math in my head, which family history has proven time and time again really means, “a slight majority of the math.” Looked up the drive on Google, which placed it around 30 minutes. Should be good if we leave by 10, I guesstimated. “I’ll set my alarm for 9:50,” my son informed me, which prompted me to suggest, unsuccessfully, we leave by 9:45. Which means we left at 10:10, which got us there at 10:45, which left us just enough time to park, pick up our bibs, and evacuate any remaining bodily fluids before taking our place at the back of the pack of already stretched and warmed-up humans massed at the starting line.
Our tight window robbed me of sharing the signature element of my pre-plannning. For motivation I was going to play Kurt Russell’s Herb Brooks’ “Miracle” speech before we got out of the car. Remind them that they were, you know, born to be hockey players. Alas.
To be fair … it’d been four years since the last time I’d participated in an organized race, so was a bit out of practice. And to be honest, I never really was what one would call ‘in practice.’ In the handful of 5 and 10Ks I’d begrudgingly participated in the couple years before the pandemic, I was never in charge of any of the planning. All of that fell to my ‘running buddy,’ Jason, whose default is to subjugate every detail to his monarchical rule. He’d prompt our registration, then spec our departure time and the ensuing directions. My race day responsibilities were limited to a light stretch followed by (a.) watching the back of Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, and then (b.) concentrating all of my energies on not puking down the front of me while maintaining operating control of my bowels until the whole unpleasantness was over.
It was the memory of one such episode that prompted me this New Year’s Eve to casually mention to Peter that I’d seen that there was a “Resolution 5K” run in Oakdale on New Year’s Day. Five New Year’s Eve’s ago, as I was a couple Moscow Mules into my evening, Jason texted me a link to that year’s race, accompanied by, “You in?” I remember convincing myself that my third Moscow Mule was spiritually akin to the training montage in Rocky IV where Stallone is carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter. From what I recall, my next day’s performance was, in fact, a fair simulacrum of an overmatched, middle-aged man carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter.
I hadn’t really asked Peter if he was interested in this year’s version, so was surprised when he responded to my dissemination of the fact with, “I’ll do it.” Nor was I expecting Emma’s response after I informed her that I’d signed Peter and me up. “Sign me up, too.” Neither had ever done a 5K before.
Seconds after doing so, apparently in the throes of what science calls a “runner’s high,” I wandered into the dining room and informed Karry of our New Year’s Day plans and asked if she wanted to ride with us and, you know, cheer us along. Which prompted the following exchange.
So it was ‘just’ the three of us standing in the light snow in 30-degree weather seconds before the start of the race, whereupon Peter asked if we’d be running together or just doing our own thing.
“Do your own thing,” I advised, since I wasn’t quite sure what any of our things were.
Since we were waaaaaayyyyyy in the back of the pack, I spent the first couple minutes maneuvering around participants either walking or easing into things (whose better judgement qualified every single one of them to be my Life Coach). Managed to carve out some space and was settling into a rhythm when a guy runs up along side me and asks me what my pace is. I hadn’t thought to consider that data point prior to his asking. I looked at my phone and saw I was matriculating at a 7:43 clip. Had I been sipping a Moscow Mule at that moment I would’ve reacted with my first spit take of the New Year. From what I could remember that was about a minute faster than my pre-pandemic pace. The voice in my head immediately channeled my Inner Karry — “[emphatic decline employing surprisingly colorful verbiage].”
“That’s my pace, too!” he said enthusiastically. “My name’s Jason,” he said cheerfully. (Apparently I’m a magnet for Racin’ Jasons.) “Do you have a target today?” he asked. Since we’d just met I couldn’t give him my honest answer — “Not pooping my pants” — instead opting for a simple “No.” Undaunted, he asked me if I intended to maintain my pace the rest of the way.
I took a deep breath and replied: “Look, before we get too far into this relationship, I’m not who you think I am. I’m living a lie right now. If I keep up this charade one of us is going to end up on the side of the trail bleating like a heifer giving birth to triplets before we hit the turnaround. You look like a nice enough fellow, but this … this is never going to work. The best thing for you to do right now is to leave me. Forget we ever met. Go, just go. Go live a life. And whatever you do … promise me you will never, ever look back.”
All of which came out of my mouth as, “Nope,” as I knew I would need all my breaths for the foreseeable future.
As I found an odd reassurance in watching New Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, I began to recall my previous race experiences. Turns out that running is just like riding a bike, except way harder … and with lots more awful running involved. I was reminded that the first mile is always further than it seems. “Surely I’ve run a mile by now,” I think to myself about a quarter of a mile in.
And the second mile is always The Worst. I refer to it as the “Seriously, what were you thinking?” mile. It’s just mean. Apparently it had a difficult upbringing. Probably overbearing parents. Most likely a bed wetter. Even when I’m running longer distances, the second mile just mercilessly taunts me.
Nevertheless, I managed to make it to the turnaround, and shortly thereafter, my phone let me know I’d made it two miles … upon which I convinced myself that this would all be over soon. Found someone just slightly ahead of me that was ambling at a reasonable pace and settled in behind them.
Stole a glance at my phone when I was about 23 minutes in. Figured I only had about three-ish minutes left to go. At which point my endorphins began to ask me my thoughts on a potential finishing kick.
“Good one,” I responded before realizing that my endorphins, much like my wife, are not kidders.
I hadn’t reached three miles yet, so was in no great hurry to make any rash decisions.
Then all of a sudden this very tall, bearded dude zooms past me. In full gallop. Like, really going for it, Kentucky-Derby-style. Sizing him up I figured he was likely in my age group. I was genuinely impressed. “Wow,” I thought. Clearly he had a plan that involved more than just maintaining a good grip on his bowels. “Good luck with … all that,” I mentally saluted as he sped past.
A couple minutes later, my phone tells me I’m at three miles. And when I look up, I see that I’m actually gaining on Tall Bearded Dude, who was now visibly scuffling down the home stretch. Looked like his bowels wanted a word with him. Kicked a little too early, evidently.
Hubris.
Which my endorphins and I discovered is apparently contagious in men of my age group.
“We’re taking this f*cker down!” my endorphins exclaimed.
“Language!” I scolded in reply, before putting my metaphorical pedal to the metal, which reacted with all the responsiveness of my parents’ 1980 Mercury Monarch that I learned to drive on.
“OK, give us a minute here,” my body replied … before marshaling all my remaining faculties into a barely perceptible acceleration, which catapulted me past Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy in a turn of events that surprised me almost but not quite as much Brigette Nielsen when Rocky drew blood from Ivan Drago.
As the finish line came into view up ahead, I somehow managed to keep TBPP Guy in my wake while retaining a majority of the bodily ingredients I’d started with, including a teensy measure of pride.
After catching my breath I sought out Peter and Emma and found them upright and in tact as well. We made our way to the community center for some water, and to steal a glance at the posted results just for funsies. Both Peter and I finished sixth in our respective age groups (even more impressive for him, as he was fighting a bit of a chest cold), while Emma finished third in her female age group, earning a tiny medal. Not bad for a coupla first timers.
Driving home in a car redolent with the aroma of our respective Ks, I was reminded of what I used to appreciate about participating in races. They’re invariably mini exercises in aliveness. Of the conscious choice to sign up. Of the sacred act of pulling a shirt over your head and lacing your shoes. Of stretching to give your body its best chance. Of seeking out your place amongst kindred spirits at different places along their respective journeys. Of watching the backs of jerseys getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Of humbling second miles where your inner voice gains the upper hand. Of appreciating that there will always be folks faster than you, and folks content with taking their own good time, and many lessons to be learned from both. And that you are probably both of those things to those around you, too. Opportunities to push yourself a little harder than you otherwise might … and seeing what happens. Heck, if it were up to me I’d give a tiny medal to Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy — for not waiting until he was ready to give it all he had. Better late than never, you know?
Summing the math on the above — or at least the slight majority of the math — aliveness is the blessing of the Racin’ Jasons and Peters and Emmas in my life … people who both ask and answer questions that I don’t always have the courage to ask myself, and who push me to see how fast and far I might be able to go.
And who make me want to be a little bit better next time.
Earlier in the week, when they asked me where I might like to go for my birthday dinner, I replied, “Surprise me.”
They hate it when I do that.
So this is after a long week.
After Karry’s long Saturday shift.
After I came down with a cold earlier in the day that left me a leaky, and mostly miserable, cauldron.
After getting dressed for a nice, though not fancy, birthday dinner.
After arguing in the driveway about whether to make the long drive into the city in the rain or just cancel the reservation.
After loudly debating whether we were in any shape to even enjoy a nice meal in our diminished states.
After Karry got behind the wheel to adjudicate the decision.
After I barely said a word from the back seat the whole way in, sulking.
After we found an open spot on the street.
After Peter, without a word, went around to the back of the car and fished out the umbrella he’d retrieved from the garage before we left, and did this ….
This is after I, unconsciously, slowed my walk behind them, even though it was raining harder than when we’d left … just so I could soak it all in.
After thinking of the Japanese art of Kintsugi, of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer mixed with powdered gold, which makes the piece beautiful because of its cracks.
A son, holding his umbrella high, to shield his mom from the rain.
I’m not sure why, but this just melted me. For some reason, it made every bit of everything that came before worth it. Maybe even all of the past 53 years.
This is me in my diminished state, after receiving the best birthday gift I am not capable of even wishing for — the gift of bearing witness.
“Surprise me,” I said.
And to think, I almost let it slip through the cracks.
When it came time for her to pick her final tap solo for her final dance recital, she didn’t agonize over the decision. Didn’t spend weeks trading, reviewing and debating dozens of tracks with her Mom and her instructor, like she’d always done with her competitive solos. As I recall, we were casually informed after she came home one day that she’d chosen Nat King Cole’s version of L-O-V-E.
“L – is foooor the way you … look at me ….”
When I overheard her telling her Mom, my heart leapt a little bit.
At the time, she didn’t know my mom just L-O-V-E’d all things Nat King Cole.
She didn’t know that L-O-V-E was probably my favorite tune when I played drums in Sammy Bill’s band … when I was an 18-year-old old soul like she is now.
She didn’t know that, whenever Sam used to call that tune – I still remember it was #252 in his book — I used to audibly enthuse, which the rest of the band always got a kick out of.
She didn’t know that Dad loved playing that tune, too.
She didn’t know that, even though the arrangement we played was pretty vanilla, Dad, if he was havin’ a good night, would improvise some of those ornery trumpet riffs behind our vocalist on the second verse, just like Nat’s version.
She didn’t know that, when it came time for me to walk away from playing after 14 years, that I somehow managed to talk Karry into us taking dance lessons so I could surprise my Dad by showing up at one of his gigs to dance to the music I had loved so much. He was over the moon when he saw us walk in, and I’m not sure who had the better time that night. All I remember is that we used every step in our meager repertoire, dancing our hearts out while he blew his horn from his shoetops.
She didn’t know that I made one request that night — #252 in the books.
At the time I didn’t know that, years later, she would be saying goodbye to something she loved so much.
I didn’t know that, after her 14 years of being on stage, she would know exactly how to put a bow on her closing chapter.
I didn’t know that she would make one request … #252 in the books.
So, after all those years of watching her with a lump in my throat and a pit in my stomach from my seat in the very last row, I got to stand in the wings for the very first time … and see her walk on stage for one of her very last.
Got to watch and listen to her dance her heart out as she sounded the stage from her shoetops one more time.
I didn’t know she was going to turn to me and smile the way she did.
“L – is foooor the way you … look at me ….”
And she didn’t know as I was tearing up and beaming back at her that I was thinking of Mom while Nate King Cole crooned. And hearing my Dad as that ornery trumpet riffed behind the vocal. And thinking of Karry as I walked on stage and took a beautiful young lady in my arms again.
It’s taken me a long time to write this. I started it because … I had to? Not sure I had a choice in the matter. Just went about the thing. Bit by bit. A strand at a time. Undoing and redoing along the way as needed, as necessary. Trying to use only what was needed for the task at hand. Trying to put everything to its good use. Staying close to it to keep an eye on things. Shooing away distractions as if they were thieves. I guess I just felt that a certain Momma R needed a nest of her own. How did I know when it was done? Not perfect, mind you, but done? Just knew ….
For the past month my favorite follow has been a momma robin in residency in our backyard.
Over days, I spent my first morning cup staring out the window. From my downstairs desk I watched as she foraged the decaying woods for nest material, making dozens of return trips from her Home Depot back to a little nook underneath our deck. Not sure she could’ve found a cozier piece of property if she scouted the entire neighborhood. Tucked away, under cover, safe from the elements.
While I couldn’t find five minutes to replace the light bulb in my daughter’s room that she mentioned a couple weeks ago, this momma built a goddamn castle from thin air right in front of me.
Bit by bit. Day by day. Working by herself, constructing it from the inside out.
The slower-than-slow-motion progress was mesmerizing. This wasn’t your shoddy construction with a Target sheen to make some quick Air BnB bank. A meticulous craftswoman, Momma R used only what she needed, putting everything to its good use. At the end of her work day … very little clean up. As one who can’t make grilled cheese sandwiches without creating a Hazmat-grade tanker spill, I found the whole production inspiring.
Awe-inspiring, to be honest.
Karry and I marked Momma R’s daily progress as she fashioned her findings into a substantial abode. The finished product seemed cavernous to my denatured eyes. She went way past ‘good enough,’ continuing to fortify it into something the Three Little Pigs could get behind.
Nature only wants the best for its children, too.
The nest sat empty for a week or so, which gave anyone who cared to notice (me and Karry, pretty much) the chance to just marvel at its engineering.
We wondered how long it would be before she laid her eggs.
Nature is no procrastinator.
And one day, there she was … perchin’.
Then the next.
And the next ….
As magical as the nest-building part was, this was … the complete opposite.
How boring.
Her just sitting there, I mean. Probably not boring for her. Probably appreciated the chance to sit a spell after workin’ her ass off. But as a spectator event? Worse than golf.
I wondered how long she would sit at a time. I didn’t care enough to actually clock it. After all, I had things to do. Bulbs not to change, you know. All I knew was she sat there longer than it took for me to drain my morning cup and return upstairs to finish getting ready for work.
As one who lacks the patience to hard-boil eggs, I considered Momma R’s sticktuitiveness Olympic-grade.
She spent so many days atop her nest, I started to wonder if something was amiss. Maybe she laid blanks or something? What I don’t know about nature could fill a lifetime of morning coffee mugs.
Then, all of a sudden …
“Wait, listen ….” Karry shushed me as we were sitting outside.
“You can hear ‘em.”
And, only when I craned my ear, stilled myself, leaned in, could I pick out the tiny squeaks coming from under the deck. Couldn’t see the top of their heads, so deep the bowl of their abode.
Not sure I’ve ever heard so much life at such low decibel.
We were giddy witnesses.
“Oh my gosh!” I whisper-shouted.
It’s the kind of thing that brings your Friday morning to its knees.
___
From there the enterprise became a family affair.
“They’re up early finding worms,” Karry reported the next morning, and right on cue, Momma R Door-Dashed from the yard to the nest with a mouthful. This is also the part of the proceedings where the baby daddy (finally) makes his appearance, chirping in on the care and feeding.
By their second breakfast on the planet, the babies no longer required one to crane one’s head to pick up the sounds. Hungry babies are not quiet babies.
Looking it up Karry discovered that the newborns’ parental worm delivery subscription would last about 13 days.
When she wasn’t feeding, Momma R. stayed close to keep an eye on things, sitting on the edge of the birdbath in our backyard. Whenever any of her neighbors came too close to her brood, she flew in to shoe them the fuck away. Whenever we popped out the back door, she squawked holy hell in our direction.
“We know, Momma, we know,” we’d say, hands up to show we meant no harm.
For the next couple days I took my coffee not at my desk, but outside on the old vacuum-formed plastic bench we keep around back (it’s not front porch material), so I could be as close to the morning headlines as possible.
Such was my fanboying, last Monday morning before work I sat outside and wrote my sister a long overdue letter. Spent the first couple paragraphs geeking out to Missy over how much breakfast energy Momma R expended flying up and under the deck, one worm at a time, on repeat. Robbins aren’t hummingbirds, so the controlled hovering and landing is a much less elegant act for them. Lots of noisy flappin’. This part I could relate to. I’m winded by my third trip up the steps carrying in groceries.
Sometimes we take for granted what it takes to put food on the table.
After finishing Missy’s letter I closed my laptop and went upstairs to brush my teeth. By the time I finished my rinse and spit, I marked that, over the past few weeks, my morning buzzes had less to do with how full I filled my coffee mug, and more to do with the few minutes spent bearing witness to a queen’s labor.
___
But by the time I returned to my downstairs desk and instinctively looked out my window — a span of less than five minutes — it was all gone.
“Oh, no … ” I said aloud.
The nest was destroyed … ravaged and resting on the wall. The beam bare except for a few pieces of straw.
A single smear of red blood on the white wall.
Instead of going directly outside, I instinctively ran back upstairs to tell Karry.
“Something happened. Something got the nest. They’re … all gone.”
We ran out the door and over to the wall. Inspecting, Momma R’s engineering masterpiece was picked clean. No signs of life … anywhere. Remnants of straw strewn on the ground.
It’s the kind of thing that brings your Monday to its knees.
The night before while taking the garbage out, I noticed a black cat I’d never seen before, prowling up the driveway. Didn’t think twice of it at the time. Had to be the culprit.
What I’d considered a perfect location was only perfect for a predator, who likely just shinnied up the vertical post directly beneath the ledge and knocked the nest to the wall in one swipe.
There was simply nothing to say.
I mean, everyone in this production was simply doing what they were programmed to do. Momma robin. Her mate. The noisy babies. The cat.
Still, I couldn’t shake the thought all day. Having watched how hard she’d labored, how much time she’d invested, how impeccably she’d performed each and every one of her duties ….
It made me genuinely sad.
I suppose it’s a human flaw, to care about such things. To invest so emotionally in something so small.
The minute we start caring about something outside ourselves … is the minute we sign up for loss.
And still ….
I’m not sure I’d ever found the natural acts of so small a creature so … venerable.
Just never took the time to notice before, I guess.
I wondered what she would do next, with no more mouths to feed.
I wondered what I’d do with my mornings.
__
For a while she just went back to work.
Started re-building.
But this time it was different.
Where she had been a master carpenter, this time she was all over the place, haphazardly throwing stuff up on the beam, seemingly not caring if or how much fell to the ground. Where she had hand-picked a single nook as her fixer-upper, now she made piles in several places. There seemed no focus to her efforts. Momma R was now building the way I make grilled cheese sandwiches.
At the end of the day, there were piles on the ground running almost the length of our patio, which Karry cleaned up (much as she does with me). Eventually, Karry felt compelled to hold a mom-to-mom intervention, moving the pile above the post where she’d built before and shifting it one nook over. She couldn’t bear the thought of nature repeating itself. Even if it meant forcing Momma R to end her spring residency with us.
I wondered if momma’s programming was insufficient to the circumstances. Like she knew what she was supposed to do for her babies, but didn’t know what to do when her babies were gone.
To my quite flawed human brain, Momma R’s behavior read as an act of mourning … the way we might lay flowers at the scene of a car accident.
Maybe she was still using only what she needed, putting everything to its good use.
What I don’t know about nature could fill a lifetime of morning coffee mugs.
But watching her, in her mess, making such a mess, gave my lingering bird-sized grief a place to … nest. At least for a little bit.
The other day she was standing on the wall beneath her work-in-progress, next to where we’d wiped away her babies’ blood. Couple of sparrows were coming around, trying to scavenge some straw for their own nests. She, though, was having none of it. Chased ’em the fuck away.
And still ….
A mother’s instincts. Standing her post. Regal as fuck.
A final, proud act.
We know, Momma, we know.
As I type this, progress has been halted on her new constructions. Seems she finally abandoned the enterprise. Maybe the sparrows, or Karry’s nudge, convinced her of what she already instinctively knew. It wasn’t a good place to raise babies after all.
I hope she finds a better location. Hard as she works, she deserves it.
While watering last night, Karry noticed that two of her front porch ferns have been commandeered. Nests built way down in. The sparrows, she thinks. Three eggs already in the one.
The lines get long but they move quickly, she says as we join the expectant tails and tongues wagging from door to street. “Bourbon Turtle” I say aloud,
not to anyone really, but because Bourbon Turtle … and it’s the greatest of all the commandments scrawled on the tall black slate scroll
Letters for Maggie 