The Sparrow

Staring silently, the woman wondered about the small visitor that huddled on the small brick ledge outside her kitchen window. It appeared two days ago; a small brown bird that she only knew as a sparrow. Although she didn’t realize it, she had grown fond of the small bird that braved the elements outside her oasis of warmth. Concerned, and compassionate, she had placed a crumbled bread crust on the ledge. Although it scared the small tenant away, it soon returned to feast on what she normally threw in her garbage.

As she stared, she thought of her friend Beverly. She wouldn’t find anything strange about her behavior.  If fact, she’d applaud the effort. Although they were the same age, Beverly seemed to relish life with a vigor that was only a memory. Much had changed in the last ten years and the changes weighed heavily on the elderly woman that was feeling trapped in her home.

She despised the winter. The freezing winds, ice and snow wrapped her life in a depressing gray. The garden she loved was dead and covered with the remnants of the last snow. Heavy clouds forecast more of the same and the thought only deepened her gloom.  The short warming was over and tonight would bring heavy snow.

She thought of her children. Paul, after years of working, finally became a partner in a law firm in Miami. Rhonda was in Houston. Teaching at the university level was always her dream and now a reality. Both were successful and both mentioned her moving to be close. She always declined the invitation.  She loved her small home and few friends that remained.  She was determined to spend the rest of her life near her memories and be buried next to the husband she lost.

A strong gust of wind interrupted her thoughts. The whistle in the eaves brought her attention back to the small bird in the window. She watched for a few minutes and realized it wasn’t moving. Standing, which usually caused the bird to fly away, didn’t change the posture of the tiny tenant.  Slowly opening the window, caused a small movement, but the bird didn’t attempt to flee. Without hesitation, she reached, grasped the small bundle of feather and placed it on the counter.  She realized the tiny bird was alive but very weak. Going to her closet, she soon returned with a shoe box and some newspaper. She placed the bird on the newspaper, found some bread to crumble and filled a jar lid with water.

Over the evening, she constantly checked on the bird. She would see some signs of movement, but noted the bread and water remained untouched. Finally, it was time for bed. She thought of covering the shoe box but decided it would only frighten the bird.  She went to bed with the hope the bird was only stressed and would be better in the morning.

When she awoke the next morning, she realized the muffled wind was due to the heavy snow that fell outside. Feeling morose, she slowly got out of bed and looked through the edge of the curtains to see the snow was already heavily drifted against the houses in the neighborhood. The remains of her garden were completely covered.  Her spirits sank as she realized it would be another day of wondering if spring would ever arrive. Suddenly remembering the bird, she hurried to the kitchen to check on her patient.

Silently, she approached the counter. She didn’t want to surprise the sparrow; only to have it fluttering in panic around her kitchen. She had no idea what she would do if that happened. Maybe, if it did, she could just feed it until spring. Then, she could open the door and allow it to leave.

Quietly peering over the edge, she was immediately saddened.  The tiny bird was lying on its side.  She knew that all her efforts were futile and the bird had died during the night. She felt defeated and wondered why she had waited so long to check on the bird.

As she observed the tiny puddle of brown feathers, she remembered her husband.  He was a strong and determined man. A cabinet maker by trade, but his work was described, by more than one, as art. Always in demand, he wouldn’t bow to the schedules of architects and home builders. Only when he was satisfied with his work would the cabinets reach the customer.  Nobody ever complained, or regretted the wait. His efforts were beyond exceptional and the demand permitted him to work to the end.

She remembered the last set of cabinets. He’d seemed more preoccupied than usual, but she decided it had to do with his age. He had avoided lunch, which concerned her, since his appetite had fallen off during the last few weeks.  “I only have a few more hours and I’m finished” was his reply when she stuck her head in his shop at noon. When it became late, and she realized he hadn’t been in for hours, she went to his shop; only to find him doubled up in pain on the floor.  

The doctors were more than kind, but their diagnosis was unpleasant to report. Pancreatic cancer, which she now knew was incurable, had been ignored for much too long.  They assured her he wouldn’t suffer. Her questions of treatment were answered with warnings of suffering without any success. In a short month, her husband had faded away. He took his last breath while staring into her eyes. For a moment, she saw the old glimmer and smile, which faded as she watched.  Her son and daughter made it to the funeral, but she’d been alone at his last moments.

Years of grief suddenly overwhelmed. Staring at the small bird released a flood of sadness she denied for too long. Sobbing, she rocked in the chair and allowed the grief to finally come.  She, again, wondered why he never said anything about feeling sick. She, also, thought of the guilt she felt when she realized his quick passing was a blessing. Watching him suffer was devastating to her soul. If he had lingered, she didn’t think she would have survived; she knew it would have ruined her financially.  These thoughts filled her with more sadness and prolonged her tears.

After awhile, she stopped, wiped her tears and thought about the last few days. What little joy she could find had now ended and she wondered how something that seemed so insignificant could affect in her so profoundly. She thought of how she had slowly allowed the despair of age to wrap her in a suffocating blanket. She had given up and was waiting for death. For a second she was infuriated. How could she not notice how pathetic she had become?

Inspired, she thought: “I need a bird feeder”. In wonder of her thoughts, she said to herself: “I’ll call Beverly. She’s always telling me I need to get out more. She’ll know where to buy a bird feeder.”

Standing, she said the small bird. “Well, you deserve a proper burial, but it will have to wait until spring.”  Finding a small freezer bag, she wrapped the sparrow in a napkin and placed it in the freezer. “I’ll bury you in the lily bed.”

Determined, she started making plans. She had things to do and people to call. “I’ll call Paul and Rhonda. That will get their attention. They’re probably dreading a call.” Laughing at her treachery, she suddenly felt younger than she felt in years. Looking out the window, she noticed the snow had stopped and the sky was brightening. Thinking of the sparrow, she suddenly felt guilty. She carefully cut up half a loaf of bread and threw it out the kitchen window.  Feeling satisfied, she sat and looked in her book for phone numbers. She realized she’d forgotten them all. “Never again.” She whispered and smiled at the thought.

A Late January Afternoon

Light rain pelted him as he ran from his car to the porch. The cold wind scattered leaves in the yard and sped the low clouds across the winter sky. He quietly opened the door and walked to the kitchen. The smells and warm air reminded him of the past. A faint hint of breakfast still lingered. For a moment, he thought of his childhood and preparing for school. He'd catch a ride with his father on such a day. He allowed the memories to pass. His father had been gone for decades.

Time stood still in the old house. Memories hung on the walls or sat in special places on shelves. The photographs stuck to the refrigerator were moments in time captured forever; the young children now adults and scattered by the winds of change. Their faded photographs were testimonies to special moments, or graduations.

His mother was at the kitchen table. She had placed her head down to take a short nap. He paused for a few moments then gently shook her arm. She awoke, stared for a moment then lit the room with her smile. "This is a surprise. I wasn't expecting you."

He raised his voice and asked: "How are you feeling?" It was a question that he asked out of habit. He knew the answer. Age had trapped her mind in a body that refused to allow her to rest. They had discussed this a few times. While she was ready, he knew her passing would be the start of his own. At that time, his own mortality would not be an occasional thought to push to the side for another day.

She answered: "I'm okay."  paused for a moment and asked: "Would you like some coffee?"

"Sure. You stay there, I'll make a pot."

As he made the coffee, he thought how things had changed. At one time, his mother would always have a fresh pot. She never made coffee now. Coffee was for special occasions. He measured the grounds, placed the coffee in the machine and added the water. After making sure the switch was on, he sat across from his mother and asked if she had anything new to report.

"Nothing is new."

"Have you heard from anyone?" He always asked the same question. Visits were rare and she spent a lot of time alone watching television or reading the paper. She would dabble in her office, but she didn't have the ability to concentrate as in the past. Mental tasks were tedious, but she still persevered. She refused to be beaten by life.

"I heard from an old friend from high school. They had lost my phone number and found it again. They were checking to see if I was still alive." She laughed and added: "I told them it's not much of a life, but I'm still here." 

He smiled, although the words broke his heart. He'd finally accepted that all that was left was the waiting. It made him sad to watch her fade. He knew she was ready to pass on, since the dignity of life was slowly disappearing. He felt a stab of anger. It all seemed so unfair. Everyone else in his life had passed suddenly; watching the slow event of her passage was excruciating. Her time left was like a dead limb on a tree; the amount of time before it fell was a mystery.

"Are you hungry?"

He hesitated, then answered: "A little. What do you have?"

"I have some leftover roast, rice and gravy. We can heat it and I'll make a salad"

"Let's have some coffee first. I'm enjoying the visit"

The coffee machine was gurgling and spitting the last of the boiled water. He rose and flipped the switch to off. It lasted longer if it wasn't kept on the hot plate. He knew she would have some more later, or tomorrow morning. If she didn't it would sit for a few days, until she poured it out. In the past, when she drank more coffee, he would smell the pot before he ever accepted any coffee. Sometime, it would be days old and stale. He wondered if that was why she stopped making her daily pot. She couldn't remember if it was fresh and hated the thought of wasting the coffee.

They sat, sipped their coffee and discussed politics. Neither was happy about current politics or the state of the economy. She was disappointed with the stock market, since her retirement income was supplemented by dividends. She was concerned she wouldn't have enough and drops in the market would cause her to worry.

She rose and opened the refrigerator. He responded by rising and offering "I'll help." Quickly looking at the shelves, he spotted the small roast covered with clear wrap. Pulling it from the refrigerator, he hunted for the rice and gravy. He opened and smelled the containers. It all smelled fresh, but he still asked: "When did you make this?"

"Last night. It's "cow butt", which brought a glint to her eye. "Cow butt" was the term his brother had used for rump roast. The story behind the term was one of her favorites and part of many conversations at family gatherings.

He removed lettuce from the hydrator and handed it to his mother. She had started slicing a small tomato that was on the counter.  As she worked, he looked in the refrigerator for old containers. In the past, he would ask how old something was, which always brought the same answer: "It's still good." He didn't ask any longer. He would open the containers, smell the contents and throw things away when she wasn't looking. He knew she could barely smell and taste. She might take a chance, but he'd do everything he could to remove the opportunity.

After heating their servings in the microwave, they sat and visited, while they ate. He ate slowly, to match her pace. He relished the time and the taste reminded him of Sunday dinners, when the entire family would share a meal. There were few left now. Without grandchildren and their families, there were usually only two or three during a gathering. Large gatherings were few and would soon only be memories. She wasn't physically able to prepare a large meal, refused to allow anyone else to perform the task and was uncomfortable about others doing the same for her. She was tenaciously independent and determined to be so until her death.

They finished their meal and started clearing the table. He put the food back in the refrigerator, while she placed the dishes in the sink. He offered to help with the dishes, which she refused. She would wash them later; not while they were visiting.

He poured them both a cup of coffee and sat once again at the table. She asked about his family and his work. In the past, he would seek her advice on both and they would have have hours of discussion. She was a good sounding board for thoughts. Her experiences in life offered valuable information, but those days were gone. He answered: "Everyone is fine and work is good." He didn't want to burden her with any problems he might be having. She had enough to worry about, without adding his worries.

"I need to be going" he said as he rose from the table. "I need to wash my hands first."

He went to the bathroom and washed his hands. He left the bathroom and made his usual cursory tour of the house. He looked for anything that seemed out of place or showed signs of future problems. He ended up in the living room and paused to stare out the window. For a moment, the late afternoon sun broke through the heavy clouds. The wet limbs of the oak trees appeared as poured gold, which glistened as the wind moved the branches. The light soon faded and the dreary, deep grays of a late, rainy winter evening returned.

He returned to the kitchen and spoke: "If you need anything, you know how to find me. I always have my cell phone close; even at night."

"I know. Is there anything I can do for you?"

He knew those days were over. The only thing she could really do for him was to be careful and never forget he was there if she needed him. "Not right now. If there is, you know I'll ask"

She rose, he hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll love you, Mom" she responded: "I love you, too. You be careful and come when you can."

He carefully locked the door when he left. He knew he'd remember the last few moments forever if needed. They might be the last moments he ever spent with her, so every detail was important.

As he drove away, he glanced back towards the house. The porch light had come on and lit the wet walk in front of her house. He thought of how times had changed. Families were now scattered. While the Internet kept everyone close, it was a pale reminder of reality. Those short moments of communication didn't represent the myriad of moments known as life. He felt sadness for a moment, but quickly shifted his thoughts to work, home and the thousands of things that occupied his thoughts. His time would eventually come, but not now. There were too many things to do and not enough time for the tasks.

Turning on the radio brought a song from high school. He fondly remembered riding down the beach, the windows down and his entire life a long journey into the future. For a moment, time slipped away and he was young again.