Time To Fly Soon

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us- We can find no scar,

But internal difference,

Where the meanings are -

-Emily Dickinson

One summer day he and I left by the back door, down the brick walkway and under the trellis around which wraps a thick wisteria vine; as we passed under it, he stopped, and his mouth formed a quiet round "o" as he raised his finger to the top of the trellis.

"Look," he whispered, pointing to a nest in which was sitting a mother bird, her beady eyes staring at us, nervous and frightened, uncertain whether to stay or flee.

We moved quickly, careful not to disturb her, and every day after that we checked the progress of the little nest and its occupant.

Sometimes she flew noisily away and screamed at us from a high perch above our heads, and sometimes she stayed in the nest, defiantly trembling, as if to declare, "Try to budge me. For my little ones I will do anything."

At last two tiny beaks poked above the nest and we knew the big event had happened.

Their beaks were a warm translucent orange raised against the bright leafy green backdrop of the wisteria.

Eventually the babies' beaks were so high that we could see their little heads.

They grew and grew until they looked as if they were old enough to be out on their own, and I knew they would leave soon.

One day I checked the nest.

They were gone.

I looked around anxiously, hoping to catch one last glimpse and there he was, one tiny bird sitting on the gravel driveway looking up at the car, thinking, I speculated, "So this is what everything looks like out here! Well, what do I do now?"

Then he flew away and I did not recognize him again.

The nest is empty now, but I decided to record what I had seen by drawing it.

I wondered if birds remembered their mothers once they got out into the woods and lived their own lives and raised their own babies.

Do they run into her some time at the oak tree, look at her funny, and think, "Do I know her from somewhere?"

So I drew this little bird in soft pastels called it Time to Fly Soon, because that's all I had been thinking as I prepared to take my children, daughters, off to college.

I wrote the title over and over beneath the finished drawing, practicing to get the slant of the lettering just right for the face of the drawing, finally placing the finished page on my desk.

Leigh, I said later to my younger daughter who was a few days away from being a college freshman, did you see my latest drawing?

I was curious to watch her reaction.

She was with a friend, ready to hop in the car to go rent a movie, and when she picked up the drawing, she laughed and said, "Time to fly soon? Time to fly soon? Is it called time to fly soon?"

She and her friend giggled and chattered as they admired my other drawings, talking about inconsequential things as they left the room.

But Jaime knew; she studied it awhile, placed it carefully back where she had found it, and refused to make eye contact for a moment.

Then this soon-to-be married twenty-one year college senior, so defiant and hostile and angry with her mother in recent years, crept over to the bed where I was sitting, drawing pad in hand as usual, laid her head in my lap, and cried.