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Birds Redux
By Stephanie Kemp
Birds Redux
By Stephanie Kemp
Dear Red Cardinal,
No offense, but I’m sort of sick of you.
You are taking up a lot of space. (This is not your fault. I have been looking for you.)
So a few days ago, I was trying to make room for some people. You know, like my immediate family (husband and daughters), my local extended family (commonly called "in-laws," but this doesn’t feel accurate), my patient friends (oh my god my patient friends)……me (who?).
It was the first time in a very long time that I sat on my balcony and looked at the sky and trees with no agenda. No Family of Origin cross thoughts, worries, wails, complaints, nostalgic tinkering. It was pretty great. I even found myself on the back end of a deep breath without having had to jump start it.
To make things even better (they were already getting pretty good), there were no pigeons on the roof next door. (I have come to hate the pigeons.)
No throaty bird calls or thunk thunk wing slaps.
No judgy head bobs through a dirty window stare down while I do the dishes.
No huffing through the sky’s lower third as they shit onto our tiny yard en masse, reminding me how much I have missed that little gray bird that used to come around.
Do you remember that bird?
I think you pointed it out first.
The one we couldn’t (and I still can’t) name?
Tiny. Would fit in a young or very old person’s palm. Had a (literal!) sweet tweet that ended in the sound of a question being asked. Always arriving with a cocked head and leaving before the question could be answered.
Remember?
Well, this Very Bird shows up on the Very Day that I am taking some space and I think:
This Is A Sign.
This is MY bird!
I am going to have my own bird to make me feel better while I am here and then soothe my heartbroken tribe members after I am gone!
(I will never name it because I hate labels, but it is back, dammit, and so am I - or will be soon!).
My bird sits on a branch (cocked head and all), and starts asking his questions. He settles in to stay a while, knowing in his bird bones that I won’t (even try to) answer them. He is even cuter than I remember.
He is back!
We are in love!
I am home!
Just as my husband (remember this started with me trying to make space for him?) is about to ask me if I am crying (I am not!), a massive hawk swoops down from the infinite blue and snatches my bird. I don’t even realize what I’ve seen until I see the gray feathers start to flutter in the air and gracefully make their way down to our still tiny yard.
What’s left of my bird has been turned into that plastic bag from American Beauty and is now Resting in not yet Peace next to all that pigeon shit.
My bird is gone.
That hawk is a fucker.
Those pigeons are only human.
And the first person I am telling this story to is a red cardinal.
“Actually," my recently hired internal fact checker points out, “that is a lie!”
I ponder this and realize that she is right:
First I talked about it, in real time, with my husband. (We all need a witness for the important things. Make sure to share this with KW.)
Then I told my daughters and my friends, Kate, Greg and Amy. (I will also tell my friend, Erinn, when I have lunch with her next week.)
I can’t wait to shine it up for my mother and father in law. (They don’t demand or require false shine, but last I left it with them I told them I was ready to re-enter Polite Society. This is an issue of follow through only for me, especially as my reentry has been a little bumpy.)
I will also tell my sister and brother in law (and niece) about what happened. I will do this right after I beat them in ping pong.
I can even tell Carol and Paula in actual person!
In the mountains! Or over Sunday bagels! Or both!
You see, I am committed to this mission.
And while I might (still) love the red cardinal (I do), I don’t want my daughters or husband or extended or family or friends or self or anyone else to look for me in a bird that could disappear for years on end only to return and be immediately eaten by a hawk through no fault of its own (or of the hawk’s, if we’re being honest, and I am trying).
I would rather have everyone eat some cheese and raise a glass (preferably of Bordeaux Rouge, a cold Bitburger or a newly discovered abundance of water), then have a laugh or tell a story.
Maybe if they do enough of that, it will make enough space for all of the birds…
…which is (obviously) the ultimate goal.
Love,
Stephanie
(Never to be known as “The Adorable Little Gray Nameless Bird Who Was Eaten by a Hawk on August 15, 2022”)
ps. In happier news, and for another time, remind me to tell you the story of the little lizard and the pepper tree!
No offense, but I’m sort of sick of you.
You are taking up a lot of space. (This is not your fault. I have been looking for you.)
So a few days ago, I was trying to make room for some people. You know, like my immediate family (husband and daughters), my local extended family (commonly called "in-laws," but this doesn’t feel accurate), my patient friends (oh my god my patient friends)……me (who?).
It was the first time in a very long time that I sat on my balcony and looked at the sky and trees with no agenda. No Family of Origin cross thoughts, worries, wails, complaints, nostalgic tinkering. It was pretty great. I even found myself on the back end of a deep breath without having had to jump start it.
To make things even better (they were already getting pretty good), there were no pigeons on the roof next door. (I have come to hate the pigeons.)
No throaty bird calls or thunk thunk wing slaps.
No judgy head bobs through a dirty window stare down while I do the dishes.
No huffing through the sky’s lower third as they shit onto our tiny yard en masse, reminding me how much I have missed that little gray bird that used to come around.
Do you remember that bird?
I think you pointed it out first.
The one we couldn’t (and I still can’t) name?
Tiny. Would fit in a young or very old person’s palm. Had a (literal!) sweet tweet that ended in the sound of a question being asked. Always arriving with a cocked head and leaving before the question could be answered.
Remember?
Well, this Very Bird shows up on the Very Day that I am taking some space and I think:
This Is A Sign.
This is MY bird!
I am going to have my own bird to make me feel better while I am here and then soothe my heartbroken tribe members after I am gone!
(I will never name it because I hate labels, but it is back, dammit, and so am I - or will be soon!).
My bird sits on a branch (cocked head and all), and starts asking his questions. He settles in to stay a while, knowing in his bird bones that I won’t (even try to) answer them. He is even cuter than I remember.
He is back!
We are in love!
I am home!
Just as my husband (remember this started with me trying to make space for him?) is about to ask me if I am crying (I am not!), a massive hawk swoops down from the infinite blue and snatches my bird. I don’t even realize what I’ve seen until I see the gray feathers start to flutter in the air and gracefully make their way down to our still tiny yard.
What’s left of my bird has been turned into that plastic bag from American Beauty and is now Resting in not yet Peace next to all that pigeon shit.
My bird is gone.
That hawk is a fucker.
Those pigeons are only human.
And the first person I am telling this story to is a red cardinal.
“Actually," my recently hired internal fact checker points out, “that is a lie!”
I ponder this and realize that she is right:
First I talked about it, in real time, with my husband. (We all need a witness for the important things. Make sure to share this with KW.)
Then I told my daughters and my friends, Kate, Greg and Amy. (I will also tell my friend, Erinn, when I have lunch with her next week.)
I can’t wait to shine it up for my mother and father in law. (They don’t demand or require false shine, but last I left it with them I told them I was ready to re-enter Polite Society. This is an issue of follow through only for me, especially as my reentry has been a little bumpy.)
I will also tell my sister and brother in law (and niece) about what happened. I will do this right after I beat them in ping pong.
I can even tell Carol and Paula in actual person!
In the mountains! Or over Sunday bagels! Or both!
You see, I am committed to this mission.
And while I might (still) love the red cardinal (I do), I don’t want my daughters or husband or extended or family or friends or self or anyone else to look for me in a bird that could disappear for years on end only to return and be immediately eaten by a hawk through no fault of its own (or of the hawk’s, if we’re being honest, and I am trying).
I would rather have everyone eat some cheese and raise a glass (preferably of Bordeaux Rouge, a cold Bitburger or a newly discovered abundance of water), then have a laugh or tell a story.
Maybe if they do enough of that, it will make enough space for all of the birds…
…which is (obviously) the ultimate goal.
Love,
Stephanie
(Never to be known as “The Adorable Little Gray Nameless Bird Who Was Eaten by a Hawk on August 15, 2022”)
ps. In happier news, and for another time, remind me to tell you the story of the little lizard and the pepper tree!