Baby

(a true story)

By Marie Eyre

       I stare out the living room window, and welcome Spring. I have patiently waited for the gentle breezes, and plump buds upon the trees. The grass reflects an emerald hue, heralding the end of winter brown. Even the highway, that runs past my home, has adopted the bright fresh look of the season. The birds have returned to sing their mating songs, and my hungry ears feed, voraciously, upon each sweet note. Everything is a feast of expectation.

       As the weeks pass, filled with warm rain and flowers, I notice the front yard tree has inherited a family of robins. The babies squawk, incessantly, for their pulverized pap, fresh from Mama's gullet. She is relentless in her search for food, and does not rest between flights from nest to ground. I think that her tiny heart must be an organ of most wondrous qualities, to sustain the never ending exercise.

       I peer out my window dozens of times during the day. My unplanned glances are subconscious happenings laced into the framework of my daily existence. During one of my stops, I witness the fall of the baby robin. I watch, in horror, as the small body spins on the road, one fragile wing fanning the air.

       Mama immediately appears beside her offspring, desperately hopping around it. A car bullets by, chasing her away. She returns, and another speeding vehicle drives her from the scene. The baby lies twitching on the painted yellow line. Then, it is still.

       The entire drama unfolds, in seconds, before my eyes. I am sure Baby is dying, or dead, but I cannot leave it on the road to be crushed beneath an oblivious tire. I rush outside and carefully scoop up the small body. The downy plumpness of its little belly, and sweet softness amaze me. It is still alive. I feel its heart racing within my grasp. I gently lay it upon the picnic table. Its head flops to one side, and its eyes slowly slide open, opaque with the bluish gray film of impending death.

       Cradling it to my breast, I sit in a chair on the front porch. Fully expecting it to die, within minutes. I quietly rock it while considering a burial place. Peering into its tiny face, I study its delicate features. Suddenly, it pops open its eyes, startling me with the clarity of its gaze! The film has disappeared, and it tries to flap its wings. I touch its beak with my finger. The beak opens wide, and I stare down into a pulsating gullet. It wants to eat, and my sadness shatters at this delightful turn of events. Then, worry descends as I ponder what to do next.

       Mama madly dances on the front lawn, shrieking for her baby. I fear that she will abandon her offspring because I have endowed it with human scent. I dash down the steps, and set the baby upon the picnic table. Feeling like a bad dog, I slink into the house, and peek through the curtains.

       I spy for hours, but Mama never approaches the roughly hewn table. I feel the baby is uncomfortable, and fetch a cloth for its bottom. Now I am sure that I interfere too much, and decide to stay clear of the situation.

       I watch until I cannot see the baby through the gloom of evening shadows. Visions of cats creep across my thoughts, and I mentally kick myself for not putting Baby in a safer place. I spend a fitful night, my imagination filled with horrendous mishaps. At first light, I rush to the window, feeling responsible for the entire bird population. Baby is sleeping, peacefully, with its head tucked beneath its wing.

       As the days pass, I become increasingly nervous about Baby's fate. If I had not taken it from the road, it surely would have died. Now, it thrives, in an alien environment, away from its nest. I know Mama feeds it. Bird droppings cover the table. I logically reason that nothing would exit if something wasn't going in.

       If Mother Nature and God had arranged its death, I have definitely upset the apple cart. The universe trembles because I did not mind my business. Still, if we are masters of our fates, there must be an unspoken arrangement concerning the destinies of baby birds. I shall breathe easier when it learns to fly.

       Baby has two siblings in the nest. They leave the comfort of their woven home, and hop to different branches on the tree. Before feeding, Mama makes them flap their wings. After a good workout, she deposits a tasty reward into gaping beaks. Mama no longer feeds Baby secretly. However, she doesn't make it easy for Baby to dine. Perching a few feet away, she makes it hop and flap to the feast. Sometimes Baby is lazy, refusing to move, yet, chatters angrily for its meal. Mama always relents. I worry it may never discover the secret of flight.

       I begin to plan Baby's retirement from the world of aviation. If it has not flown by migration time, I will bring it into the house, and shower it with love. I imagine that it would be like caring for a budgie. However, I fervently hope that Baby will surprise me with learned and inherited traits of survival. The responsibility of its life weighs heavily upon my heart.

       Spring becomes summer. The siblings can fly and Mama watches them with a sharp eye. Fortunately, they never venture far from the tree. Baby has matured upon the picnic table. Its plump body begins to elongate, and its breast reddens. Mama tempts it, at ground level, with food. Baby hops the length of the table, prepares for lift off, then topples over onto its fluffy self. In spite of its clumsy attempts at flight, it seems strong and healthy. Neither of its wings look broken. I decide that its education is merely a matter of time, and I settle into my position as observer.

       Panic! Baby disappears from the picnic table! A quick search uncovers it in the long grass, beneath the Juniper bushes. It shows neither fear nor excitement at my mad scrambling. Mama demands my retreat as she stands, nearby, chirping in consternation. I conclude that Baby has flown from the table, and I feel like a mother who has missed her child's first steps.

       Baby rapidly hops through its miniature world, and on several occasions, tries to fly. After a few seconds of airborne time, barely above ground, it bites the dust, then rights itself with a flurry of thrashing wings and disgruntled chirps. I nickname it "Crash".

       My fear of rearranging fate, and incurring the wrath of greater powers, slowly dissipates. Baby begins to accumulate air time, although it lands in strange places. Its tiny mass allows it to rest on boughs and twigs that would surely crack beneath a full sized bird. Its favorite airport is a small rosebush in my neighbor's yard. It perches, unperturbed, on a frail, thorny stem that sags and bounces with Baby's weight. It skids across the hood of the car, and tangles with the windshield wipers. It dives from the rose trellis, into a bed of marigolds, disappearing beneath a barrage of gold and yellow heads.

       The siblings soar from branch to branch, tree to tree, and practice pecking at the ground. Baby prefers to sit and wait for service. Mama calls it from a distance; delicious delicacies of bug and worm dangle from her beak. Sometimes, Baby displays great determination, and performs a series of aerial acrobatics to reach the banquet. Other times, it remains immobile, wherever it lands, and no amount of taunting will dislodge it from its sanctuary.

       The neighborhood bulges with young robins. Fledgling flyers fill the yard. Mama always knows which three belong to her. Baby flies longer and harder, but lacks the finesse of its peers. At one point, Baby vanishes for most of the afternoon. I see a disparaging clump on the road. It is one of the hundred small birds that inundate the area. In my heart, I know it's not Baby. The runaway turns up, toward evening, in a lumber pile by the shed. Even Mama couldn't find it right away.

       The summer months lazily drift towards Autumn. I rarely see Baby and its family. I think they have moved to the park, across the street. I don't worry about Baby's plight, as I have seen it soar high above the tree tops. I feel secure that it has as much chance as its counterparts to survive the world. Still, I wonder if there will be a gross difference in the grand scheme of things, because of a bird, that exists due to my meddling.

       Cool winds and gray skies mark a change of seasons. The geese gather into their vee formations and practice their farewell cries. Most of summer's birds have disappeared from the landscape. I can clearly see the robin's nest in the front yard tree. It is a forlorn display of emptiness.

       A familiar clamor draws me from deep thought. Peering out the window, I see four robins, strutting and chirping across my view. They stop and stare at the window, transfixing me with their ornithic gazes. They fall silent, and I know it is Baby and family. Is this a good bye? I wonder if they are last to leave because of Baby's tardiness. Then, as if by signal, they lift off together, and soar from sight. I clasp my hands, and send a hurried prayer of safekeeping, after them. I hear the sound of an ethereal door, gently closing, and I feel certain that everything is truly in its place.

@ 1990 & 2001 Marie Eyre c. August

Artwork @ 2001 by Chip Davenport