“We put some seed in it,” Dad tells me. “I think the birds are afraid of the house. We’ll move it to a tree out back soon.”
He points to the small hanging fixture near the side door.
“Cool,” I reply, thinking of the little pink and blue home I once painted in our sun room, pastel-speckled newspaper spread all around me. After, Dad took a ladder out into the back and nailed it onto a tree between some overgrown shrubs–once referred to as ‘Alyssa’s garden’–and the shed that now houses his Halloween decorations.
Years later, when Dad hired someone to cut that same tree down, I agonized over the birds who’d settled there. Where would they go? Would they even survive?
Now, that old bird house sits in our garage on top of some plastic shelving, life swirling around it not inside.
*
When I was in 3rd grade, Mom and I spent hours driving to and from a pet store near our house. I wanted a guinea pig. Or a white rat. Or a hamster. Any companion, really.
We were innocently eyeing the gerbils when a large bird of unknown species landed on Mom’s shoulder. Her face turned bright red. So did mine.
“Excuse me!” Mom said to one of the pet shop employees. “A little help?” She motioned to her left shoulder.
“Oh!” the employee said. “Don’t worry. He’s harmless.”
Mom’s face darkened. The birds tiny feet now looked more like vicious tallons digging into her.
*
All though my childhood, a strange recurring incident persisted in my dreams. Sitting in a large bird’s nest beside tropy-sized sized eggs, a mama bird would flock down and land right on top of me, suffocating the air from my lungs, stifling me through her intuitive protection. Birds still sometimes creep their way into nightmares, grazing my head as they fly by or pecking at blurred faces.
On the streets, I jump when they near me and shoo them away.
“I hate birds,” I tell anyone remotely near.
“Ha!” they usually chuckle. “Guess you saw that Alfred Hitchcock film?”
“Terrifying. Read the book too. Totally scarred for life.”
I hate everything about them: poop on the driveway, chirping, flying Vs.
Be an individual! I want to yell to them. Find your own route forward.
*
Last time I flew home to Massachusetts, there was a small bird trapped in the terminal. He took to scurrying around near my seat, so I pulled my legs up cross-legged under me. I thought of the walk I’d just endured: past the ticket desk, through security, past several coffee and food shops, and finally, to my gate. He’d never make it all that way, back into the outside world.
“Look, Mommy! A bird,” a little boy gawked from across the aisle. The mother rolled her eyes and returned to her newspaper, patting him on the head lightly.
*
Mom recently sent me a photo of her brother Rob in Honduras during July. He traveled there with his son Dan and girlfriend Anna Victoria, whose American family has lived abroad for years.
Rob’s wife, Marilyn, died in the spring, just months before his trip.
“My whole life used to be about making plans,” I heard him tell a friend the weekend before the flight. “Now, my biggest decision is what’s for breakfast.”
He needed to get away for a while. My parents and I were at his condo in New Hampshire to celebrate the fourth and see him off. I expected him to hug me and say, “See ya soon, kiddo.” Instead, he said, “It’s going to be so humid there.” No one answered. He looked exhausted and I wanted to embrace him. I hated thinking of him on the plane alone, fiddling with a newspaper and ordering tangueray and tonics. He grabbed his luggage and waved to us–his diminished clan.
When I open Mom’s e-mail, “Pix from Honduras,” I’m pleasantly surprised: there’s Rob with a huge blue and yellow parrot resting on his arm. He’s holding his beige, floppy tackle fishing hat in his left hand and making a face as if he’s just been clucking. His eyes are half closed; the camera caught him right in the action.
Yup, I think. That’s about right. I immediately flash to that time in the pet store, Mom looking around for comfort or aid. Me, standing there like an idiot, afraid of the creature and its nails.
“Looks like an amazing trip,” Mom writes. I smile slightly, knowing the best thing about birds is that eventually, whether accompanied or solo, they fly away.
[Note: written from the prompt "seeds"]
