Confessions of a bird freak

Lift

After “Trout Lilies” by Ginny MacDonald

I want to tell him that the small, round, fluffy birds that chip-chip-chip at him from crowded bushes and sidewalks are called House Sparrows; that they’re invasive, the earth didn’t choose to loose them here, but nevertheless they’re here and they’ve built a home. I want to tell him that the Northern Mockingbirds from my own home back in Texas also yodel from treetops and lampposts this far north, that he probably heard them when we lived in Austin and can search for them, and me, at tennis courts here during the summers. I want to tell him about Catbirds, silly little gray birds that shuffle and scurry and swoop, that will stare you right in the eye and then whine, their statement an uncanny meow.

I want to tell him that I used to look forward to waking up in the morning to him, and now I look forward to waking up to tiny Kinglets with fierce orange foreheads and toothpick legs, whistling airily while flitting from branch to branch, unable to sit still in their lightness. I look forward to visiting my local Great Blue Heron, poised like a statue in the quiet pondside at sunrise, immovable until he alone decides he’s ready to uproot. I look forward to catching a cheeky glimpse of the Yellow-Rumped Warbler, anonymous until he reveals a telltale flash of color while lifting off the ground.

I want to tell him that I adored his laugh, but now my heart races when I hear the throaty chuckle of a Nuthatch, rising unmistakable through the teeming chatter of the forest; that his words used to move me, but now when I hear the weep of a Mourning Dove, I can no longer breathe. I want to tell him that his music once charmed me, but now the Carolina Wren serenades me with his ringing, persistent refrain, the artist always hidden just out of sight but never out of mind — and I am an enchanted audience of one. I want to tell him that it isn’t the same. It is more than I could have ever imagined.

I want to tell him that after I broke both of our hearts, mine was left with a gaping hole, and Chickadees flew in and built a nest. I want to tell him that sometimes I feel lost without him, but when I track the hiccup of a Red-Bellied Woodpecker echoing through the woods, my soul is oriented. I want to tell him that while I cannot forget him, I don’t think of him when the Kingfisher hovers in the air, suspended in time and space; I don’t think of him when she plummets toward the earth. I want to tell him that I chose this and that I’m okay and that it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.