Because Even a Mere Sentence Seems Impossible These Days

Is it okay to dig one out from the snow?

This one is 7 yrs. old.



We had a bird in the house one day last summer, a Ruby-throated hummingbird that darted in through the kitchen door just as we were finishing breakfast. He hovered momentarily above Quetzal’s oatmeal, darted up and bounced off our cookware, and then, in crazed, twisting flight, rebounded over and over against a corner window. There was an immediate breakdown in household order, of course, as each of us felt compelled to do something. We pushed back from the table and stood up, pointed, and Quetzal, in a wonderful display of five-year-old agility, went shrieking in several directions while simultaneously hiding under both arms.

Naturally, the bird fell apart, too. After its initial fit of bouncing against the window, he tucked himself into a corner in the mudroom and resolutely avoided windows generally, opened or closed. When I tried forcing the issue with a broom, he made matters worse by flying to the highest point in the house, which meant, as we live in a barn-like house without conventional ceilings, he was trapped. And there was little we could do to help except fret and pace, which my wife did until she left for work, or send up hope, which Quetzal did, especially so after I hinted that the bird would likely exhaust himself and die.

“You mean fall down on his wing,” she asked, fluttering her fingers down.

“Exactly,” I said.  “Tumbling fluttering down.”

Whereupon the event of a bird in the house took on an entirely new context for the girl. She quieted, arched her back in preoccupation, and disappeared outside. When she returned she was carrying a miniature glass vase filled with a single orange nasturtium. She added a bit of water, placed a bar stool directly below the bird, and sat the vase on the stool. Beside the vase she arranged two small, white oval stones. Then she stepped back and waited, the hummingbird caroming left and right in the joinery high above, his frantic wing-beats echoing throughout the house.

It was soon after this that I suggested we take a walk. That would allow the bird a chance to settle down and notice her flower, I said. Quetzal agreed, and calling Ajax, our dog, and Couscous, our cat, we headed out. And immediately she perked up. By the time we reached the lane, she was skipping. By the time we reached the lane’s hard-left turn, she had pressed me into skipping.  And by the time we reached the dirt road that leads up the mountain and down, she had directed us several times through “Skip Skip to My Lou.” I thought she had forgotten all about the bird.

But she had not. Stopping directly in the middle of the road, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a white stone identical to the two she had placed on the bar stool. Holding it up to show me, she asked about the hummingbird, if he had fallen down on its wing yet. When I said I hoped not, she countered by saying she hoped so. She said she wanted him to fall because she wanted to bury him. She said she loved burials. Like our old dog Liesl’s—the way we had sung songs and held hands when she had died, the way we had thrown sticks and pine boughs across her grave…could we please, she asked, have another burial?

And the white stone she was holding up for me? It was the hummingbird’s, she said. She wanted a burial with a gravestone this time.

There was no running, skipping or singing on our return. Just walking and a bit of laughing at the antics of the cat, who was trailing us. We entered the house as the hummingbird had, through the opened kitchen door, and went directly to the bar stool and looked up. It took us a few moments to locate the bird because he was actually quite close—perched on the handle of the stovepipe flue. We could have touched him almost.

But we didn’t, and I’m certain we never will. Because the hummingbird, startled by our whispers, darted and was gone. When soon after Quetzal realized that he was back and drinking at the feeder and still “living on his wing,” she moved the stool and her vase and flower out to the deck and positioned them directly under it. When I passed by sometime later, I noticed she had added the third white stone and also one of Ajax’s bite-size dog treats.

7 responses to “Because Even a Mere Sentence Seems Impossible These Days

  1. Thank you for this New Year’s treat.

  2. Susan Curtis

    You are so very very good.

  3. God, I had missed your writings, Will. Thank you so very much for sharing.

  4. Hello Happee Bee. You and your children in the American southwest on a daily explore, your life having taken a sharp turn awhile ago…. May the turn prove to be a good one, the best redirection ever. Thanks for the note.

  5. Susan, you are always kind. Is David up to helping me close in a shop?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s