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Of hearts and wings redux
Friday, February 13, 2015 at 12:44PM 
As it happens I am triskaidekaphobic around the edges as well as an incurable romantic (through and through). Therefore I consider the re-telling of this tale to be ideal for Friday the Thirteenth, Valentine's Day Eve.
Once upon a time several warm Marches ago, taking a wee break from work, I sat outside by the pool, savoring a half-cup of reheated coffee, watching and listening.
In the slanting light of the cool spring afternoon a saucy squirrel stopped chasing a friend long enough to prostrate himself on a truncated, sun-soaked branch high in a towering conifer, his vivacious throaty chirps mingling with those of his compadres higher in his tree as well as in neighboring pines. Their late-day badinage was punctuated by the tweets and calls of an equally energetic avian citizenry.
I lazed quietly on the swing and thought about many things: the perfunctory nature of life, the healing grace of God, the sad reality of loss, and the amazing power of dreams. And all the work I had left to do.
As I stalled, unwilling to go inside, tuning in to various genre of birdsong (nature's iPod), I was reminded of a long-ago mini tragedy.
It involved our third and baby daughter, Erica (she of the many phobias), and, as it happens, a bird.
Therein lies the tragedy.
Erica was about three when one day the kids were playing indoors. I was nearby in the kitchen when I heard an ominous thunk.
Hastening into the front room, I arrived in time to see a good-sized bird fluttering to the ground outside our picture window. He had flown smack into the glass and experienced an unplanned detour.
We hustled outside en masse and the children watched as I crawled around some shrubbery to take a look. The stunned creature lay on his back, eyes glazed, toes curled, wings askew, in shock but still alive.
In spite of my better judgment I decided to "rescue" the bird. Soon enough he lay cozily in Baby Andrew's playpen (minus Andrew and his toys) in the living room, warm under his makeshift blanket, attempting to recover. A buffet of a few breadcrumbs and water was available in case he should revive and crave a snack.
Stephanie and Audrey functioned as nurse assistants but the most wide-eyed and helpless aide was Erica. She was just old enough to understand but not old enough to contribute.
It took the bird several hours to die. He did it quietly, all on his own; we were spared the agonizing decision of whether to remove him from life support.
I suppose there was a shoebox funeral but honestly I don't remember. I had four small children! It is a wonder I'm coherent today.
That night TG and I put the kids to bed as usual and were ourselves asleep when, somewhere in the small hours, I heard sniffling. I went looking for the broken heart.
Turned out it belonged to a pale and trembling Erica, green eyes brimming, cheeks sticky with tears. I asked her what was wrong.
I -- I -- I wanted to keep that bird, she explained in a tragic sobbing voice.
I added my sundered heart to the heap and knelt in front of her.
Oh baby, I said. Don't cry. If you can hold on till the morning, Mama will buy you a bird.
What a parent will say in the middle of the night in order to get a kid to go back to sleep.
But it worked, and I did buy her a parakeet the next day, which "pet" in due time she allowed to die of starvation and/or hypothermia. That's a whole 'nother Budgie blog. (And don't bother alerting PeTA. I'm pretty sure his demise was inevitable and either way the statute has run on that one.)
How short is life. How glorious its possibilities. How extreme its desires and how rude its awakenings. How decisive its true-ups and its letdowns.
How brief the time to shine, to fly in the open air with the sun on your face. How happy the moments when all seems lost but a viable solution is found.
How earnest the craving to accomplish something meaningful before your expiration date. How deep the need for someone and something to truly cherish.
Like the beak of a tiny wren, life is fragile but just as strong as it needs to be -- and perfectly designed for its intended use. Like the best, most inspiring art, form follows function and vice versa.
Eat enough to stay alive but swallow quickly so you can keep on singing to the end.
And never forget: Someone is watching and someone is listening. Someone stands by to offer comfort in the death hour. Someone will miss you when you're gone. Someone somewhere is loving you.
=0=0=0=
Happy Friday ~ Happy Valentine Weekend
Reader Comments (5)
Hello Jenny, Yours is one of my favorite posts this pre-Valentine Day (and my mother would be worried as heck because it's also Friday 13th - she was more than superstitious around the edges). You've found hearts everywhere, and I guess that must mean love is also everywhere if we can only be open to it. Now, I'm dying to know what that second red heart that looks like a piece of cereal really is...
@Barb ... cereal, haaaha ... that's a frozen strawberry and it's exactly as I found it (several years ago) in the bag. I do see hearts everywhere! Have a wonderful Valentine getaway with your man. xoxo
I love all of the hearts you found and shared. So sad for little Erica - sounds like my girls!
Just put photography in the background...You need to write a BOOK!! LOVE your stories dear Jenny...although your photography is super...maybe do Both??!!!
hughugs
Who would have even guessed a frozen strawberry??