Flight to the Death

It sounded like the metallic PLUNK of an ancient steel gas can as it adjusts to a quick change in temperature. I am so sorry if you’ve never enjoyed using metal gas cans. As for the plastic spouts that keep the vapors in and spill gas down the side of your Briggs & Stratton, I am sorry about that, too. I had nothing to do with it.

I looked from my porch bed back into the camp and saw that Ellie heard the same thing, so it wasn’t a dream. Her ears were up, but it wasn’t enough to move her from the stack of throw pillows she pushed together to create a makeshift bed.

I saw nothing out of place in the cabin and chalked it up to something external that I could do nothing about, at least until after coffee.

A few weeks ago, I was shaken awake by a different sound. The crashing from the upper loft of the camp caused me to get up to search for something broken, but I never found the root cause. The Significant One was with me that night; she heard it too. So, I’m not crazy. Well, not any more crazy than when I started this journey.

The flat calm of the lake drew me to the front steps to sip coffee and contemplate the chores of the day. Quietly commenting to myself on how great the fresh-cut lawn appeared, I found my thump; she still had a worm in her mouth.

I’ve been surrounded by robins this year. I watched the hatch of six babies in my cedar tree, just outside my dining room window. I talked to the mother a lot this spring. A mere two feet away from my glass, she came to accept my intrusions on her privacy. Mostly I said, “Nice job, Mom.” You know, silly little things, to give her the spunk to continue sitting and warming her— blue— future offspring.

The nest has been there for years, always filled in the spring and empty after the kids have gone off to school and lives of their own.

I looked up to the expanse of glass on the camp porch and noticed the smudge mark where she struck with enough speed to kill herself. There was a bit of the worm still stuck there, a tribute to working hard and losing everything with not a chance in a last-minute change of direction.

I walked over and gently picked her up, hopeful that she was only stunned. That hope was washed away when I sensed the stiffness that had already set in. The hearty breakfast, maybe for the kids or maybe just for her, fell from her mouth.

I did the simple math, the only math where I excel, and hoped that her babies were gone from the nest already since it’s been over a month since my home batch had moved along.

I took her over into the g
reen growth that envelopes my enclave, and I placed her beside a cool moss-covered gray boulder that I sometimes use for leaning. I scraped the dank duff from

 the forest floor and covered her as neatly as I could.

No better headstone has ever been created than a natural glacier-dropped boulder. I have no silly thoug

hts that other critters won’t get to her, but that is the way that nature closes the chapters of its own.

I’d done the best I could with the part I was given, and I wandered off to the steps to finish my —now cold—coffee.

Suddenly, I felt the grief that struck me back in 1975. I’d been weeding my mother’s garden when I saw a sparrow at the far end, doing what sparrows do.

The dumb and thoughtless twelve-year-old in me picked up a clod of dark earth and threw it as hard as I could, striking the sparrow and ending its life. I truly never thought I’d hit it, let alone kill it. But I did. I was sad about that for weeks. I’ve changed a lot since then, thankfully.

You think more about death, the further along you get in life. The once mundane becomes more important. The silly mistakes get more air-time in your head. I think it’s good; I believe it’s all in the plan.

We are all party to a chain of events that we cannot control. It’s how we respond to those breaks in the chain that mold us, hopefully, to do better the next time.

Her ending was my morning awakening, and that thought will stay with me for a while. I think that’s good too.

Do your best with the part you are given—

From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,

TC