On one of the lazy long-houred afternoons in Vail, Colorado I sat out on the porch, reading a book. I stopped to study the window of the house: a perfect reflection of the sky. I paused to try to take a photograph, of the sky in the window, the reflection of a reader seated below. I decided not, to, though and went back to my book.
The Hummingbird saw those clouds too, but in a different way and tried to fly right into that sky. The sound started me and I looked to the deck of the porch in dismay. It was a long second or two and I watched this perfectly perfect creature arch his back sucking in a breath and literally expire.
Part fairy, part insect, part bird, I waited. Hoping for "stun" instead of "death". I wanted the bird to revive, to resurrect, but I knew. I knew because I watched it happen: soul, spirit, electricity was in the tiny body of this creature and in a moment all that was left was the body: a shell of translucent wing and green feathers: iridescence fading. A small drop of blood at the bird's beak was the last thing it would say.
I wish I could tell you we all knew the right thing to do at the right time. Edward, my ten year-old came out, fell into a "state" (he called it that) and said he needed to go inside and be sad. Baker, less outwardly impacted went on with his pool game. I didn't know what to do. I've never watched an animal (or human) die before. It was beautiful and horrifying at the same time. It was real: real life and then real death.
Yesterday I watched the brilliant documentary about Mr. Rogers: a man I spent many hours with when I was 3 and 4 and 5. At one moment toward the end of the film, part of an episode is shared about death when a small silver fish in his on-set fish tank dies. He chose to weave the real-death moment into his show: scooping up the fish and respecting it with a "proper burial" in the artificial turf outside of his TV home. It was touching. I thought about the hummingbird.
I missed the moment, and we did it in a different way. Our hummingbird's shell of a body was swept over the edge of the porch onto the earth below. I don't know what I was thinking (I wasn't). I played the scene over and over as witness to the miracle of what life is.
The next day it was gone: back into some creature's part in a great cycle of living and dying. I can only console myself that, like the sands of the Tibetan Sand Mandala, we swept that bird into paradise.
Paradise, where the glass is a mirage and tiny wings and hearts go on beating for ever. But maybe that's just a reflection, too.
The Hummingbird saw those clouds too, but in a different way and tried to fly right into that sky. The sound started me and I looked to the deck of the porch in dismay. It was a long second or two and I watched this perfectly perfect creature arch his back sucking in a breath and literally expire.
Part fairy, part insect, part bird, I waited. Hoping for "stun" instead of "death". I wanted the bird to revive, to resurrect, but I knew. I knew because I watched it happen: soul, spirit, electricity was in the tiny body of this creature and in a moment all that was left was the body: a shell of translucent wing and green feathers: iridescence fading. A small drop of blood at the bird's beak was the last thing it would say.
I wish I could tell you we all knew the right thing to do at the right time. Edward, my ten year-old came out, fell into a "state" (he called it that) and said he needed to go inside and be sad. Baker, less outwardly impacted went on with his pool game. I didn't know what to do. I've never watched an animal (or human) die before. It was beautiful and horrifying at the same time. It was real: real life and then real death.
Yesterday I watched the brilliant documentary about Mr. Rogers: a man I spent many hours with when I was 3 and 4 and 5. At one moment toward the end of the film, part of an episode is shared about death when a small silver fish in his on-set fish tank dies. He chose to weave the real-death moment into his show: scooping up the fish and respecting it with a "proper burial" in the artificial turf outside of his TV home. It was touching. I thought about the hummingbird.
I missed the moment, and we did it in a different way. Our hummingbird's shell of a body was swept over the edge of the porch onto the earth below. I don't know what I was thinking (I wasn't). I played the scene over and over as witness to the miracle of what life is.
The next day it was gone: back into some creature's part in a great cycle of living and dying. I can only console myself that, like the sands of the Tibetan Sand Mandala, we swept that bird into paradise.
Paradise, where the glass is a mirage and tiny wings and hearts go on beating for ever. But maybe that's just a reflection, too.
No comments:
Post a Comment