__________________________________
Birds
By Stephanie Kemp
Birds
By Stephanie Kemp
I am at the cabin in Michigan. On the porch. Looking at the river. The bridge. The field. Frances is next to me reading Richie Rich. He has replaced Archie in her heart and head.
I hear birds I know by sound only. Forty-nine years into this deal and I can name no bird outside of a woodpecker and a chicken.
I am only slightly kidding.
It helps if it is blue.
And all I really need to know is the sound of the whippoorwill here and the chickadee (is it a chickadee?) in Moonridge.
My husband and I battle over the sound we hear it sing. (Is the dress blue? Is it gold? Can we both be right?)
I also know that we must do our part to save the Kirtland’s Warbler, no matter how ugly the forest looks after we have burned down the necessary jack pines.
Sometimes we must burn to save.
The trees rustle. Mom clanks around inside. I hear the other kids at the pond. Splashing. Laughing. Yelling. Catching frogs that fear for their lives.
Ginny and Mike are doing lunges and stretches. While it is a jarring forest sight to be sure, they know how to take care of themselves. Ginny is reading a book on renewing Episcopal Identity. She takes care of others as well.
This is not a judgment.
It is a compliment.
Plus she is simultaneously reading a book called, “People I Want to Punch in the Throat.” She clearly knows what she is doing.
_____________
The river holds a lot of sadness for me. It is where my son’s ashes were scattered. I lost him in my 7th month of pregnancy. His name was Ben Dawson Bluming. I rarely talk about him. I think it is hard for other people to talk about him with me or hear about him.
My mom asks.
She remembers.
She is sad.
I am grateful for that. And for her.
_____________
But Frances wants me to help her get to the pool (aka the pond - this is a naming rights family battle that has raged for half a century) to find her sister and cousins. There are yellow jackets. I will help her. After I get chapstick for her chapped lips.
“Belly’s back,” she says, through my fingers on her lips, about the little bird we have been watching.
“He is a White Bellied Jay,” she tells me, wiping off most of the chapstick. As she is my daughter, I am quite sure this is not Belly’s legal name, but I love that Frances doesn’t hesitate in identifying her as such.
Belly is a beauty.
Frances is a badass.
Belly has a nest above the living room window sill. She sneaks over when she thinks we aren’t looking. I don’t dare peek to see if there are eggs in her nest.
I am grateful for them.
Belly.
Eggs.
Frances.
Always, Frances.
_____________
“I need space for my thoughts.”
This is what my friend Garv says to his soon to be wife Beata often. Daily? He thinks it, he feels it, he says it. He works at it.
She gives it. He loves her.
They are getting married.
Married.
What a great idea.
Marriage.
But only with space.
Why is this a revolutionary idea?
What has happened?
It is what I often feel during coffee in the morning. I need silence and space but I also want to talk to my husband, to hear what is in his head, to help him move through thoughts and things and life. He works so hard. He is so fucking talented. He loves us, and me, so much. I hope he knows how much I love him back.
His voice.
His hands.
His (our) secrets.
I miss him.
And still I want coffee with space.
I am having it now. In the Michigan woods.
I have never been good at balance.
We all have to work on something.
_____________
Frances has gone to the pool to catch frogs. I am still on my date with the river.
I love the birds.
Even as acquaintances.
Especially as acquaintances.
_____________
Later.
The first moving picture show.
Clouds as they move through the sky. Trees as they frame them.
Why don’t I remember to look up.
Why don’t I remember to remember.
Mom is next to me shuffling cards waiting for the cookies to come out.
Frances and Bobby are tubing down the river.
Frances is wearing her diamond bathing suit.
Olivia is practicing stage make up on Elise and Dawson.
The play is tomorrow night.
Elise is the mean girl who turns nice at the end.
Cat eyes. But not too much.
Dawson is a rock.
Too much pink.
Too much pink!
Ginny got a tick off Mike.
I told you they know what they are doing.
I hope Mom wins her solitaire.
She never cheats. Even when no-one is looking.
I am going to the dock to see who wants to have a daisy contest.
I will bring Mom’s cookies. (I do cheat.)
Uncle Maku comes tomorrow. There will be jeep rides and birthdays.
Big talks,
Ghosts.
Remember
Remember.
__________________________________
![]()
(It’s a pool.)
I hear birds I know by sound only. Forty-nine years into this deal and I can name no bird outside of a woodpecker and a chicken.
I am only slightly kidding.
It helps if it is blue.
And all I really need to know is the sound of the whippoorwill here and the chickadee (is it a chickadee?) in Moonridge.
My husband and I battle over the sound we hear it sing. (Is the dress blue? Is it gold? Can we both be right?)
I also know that we must do our part to save the Kirtland’s Warbler, no matter how ugly the forest looks after we have burned down the necessary jack pines.
Sometimes we must burn to save.
The trees rustle. Mom clanks around inside. I hear the other kids at the pond. Splashing. Laughing. Yelling. Catching frogs that fear for their lives.
Ginny and Mike are doing lunges and stretches. While it is a jarring forest sight to be sure, they know how to take care of themselves. Ginny is reading a book on renewing Episcopal Identity. She takes care of others as well.
This is not a judgment.
It is a compliment.
Plus she is simultaneously reading a book called, “People I Want to Punch in the Throat.” She clearly knows what she is doing.
_____________
The river holds a lot of sadness for me. It is where my son’s ashes were scattered. I lost him in my 7th month of pregnancy. His name was Ben Dawson Bluming. I rarely talk about him. I think it is hard for other people to talk about him with me or hear about him.
My mom asks.
She remembers.
She is sad.
I am grateful for that. And for her.
_____________
But Frances wants me to help her get to the pool (aka the pond - this is a naming rights family battle that has raged for half a century) to find her sister and cousins. There are yellow jackets. I will help her. After I get chapstick for her chapped lips.
“Belly’s back,” she says, through my fingers on her lips, about the little bird we have been watching.
“He is a White Bellied Jay,” she tells me, wiping off most of the chapstick. As she is my daughter, I am quite sure this is not Belly’s legal name, but I love that Frances doesn’t hesitate in identifying her as such.
Belly is a beauty.
Frances is a badass.
Belly has a nest above the living room window sill. She sneaks over when she thinks we aren’t looking. I don’t dare peek to see if there are eggs in her nest.
I am grateful for them.
Belly.
Eggs.
Frances.
Always, Frances.
_____________
“I need space for my thoughts.”
This is what my friend Garv says to his soon to be wife Beata often. Daily? He thinks it, he feels it, he says it. He works at it.
She gives it. He loves her.
They are getting married.
Married.
What a great idea.
Marriage.
But only with space.
Why is this a revolutionary idea?
What has happened?
It is what I often feel during coffee in the morning. I need silence and space but I also want to talk to my husband, to hear what is in his head, to help him move through thoughts and things and life. He works so hard. He is so fucking talented. He loves us, and me, so much. I hope he knows how much I love him back.
His voice.
His hands.
His (our) secrets.
I miss him.
And still I want coffee with space.
I am having it now. In the Michigan woods.
I have never been good at balance.
We all have to work on something.
_____________
Frances has gone to the pool to catch frogs. I am still on my date with the river.
I love the birds.
Even as acquaintances.
Especially as acquaintances.
_____________
Later.
The first moving picture show.
Clouds as they move through the sky. Trees as they frame them.
Why don’t I remember to look up.
Why don’t I remember to remember.
Mom is next to me shuffling cards waiting for the cookies to come out.
Frances and Bobby are tubing down the river.
Frances is wearing her diamond bathing suit.
Olivia is practicing stage make up on Elise and Dawson.
The play is tomorrow night.
Elise is the mean girl who turns nice at the end.
Cat eyes. But not too much.
Dawson is a rock.
Too much pink.
Too much pink!
Ginny got a tick off Mike.
I told you they know what they are doing.
I hope Mom wins her solitaire.
She never cheats. Even when no-one is looking.
I am going to the dock to see who wants to have a daisy contest.
I will bring Mom’s cookies. (I do cheat.)
Uncle Maku comes tomorrow. There will be jeep rides and birthdays.
Big talks,
Ghosts.
Remember
Remember.
__________________________________
(It’s a pool.)