A Birthday Wish for E at Twelve

At 12, I thought I was ready to be 13. When I turned 13, I hated pretty much everything and wanted to be 16, when I thought I'd be free. (Of what, I'm not sure.) At 16, I wanted to be 18 so I could go to college, but at 18 and at college, I was bored and wanted . . . .

And so it goes.

Always wanting something else.

Even today: I want to be outside rather than in, lying down, elevating, icing my foot, and watching Netflix. 

At least I know that when I walk in the kitchen, "my" hummingbird, where he/she has been since I put the feeder out months ago, will still be there, always alert, always watching, always active, till evening when he/she disappears overnight, and where I'll find him/her again the next morning.

My great-niece E turns 12 today. May she, like my hummingbird, always be as much in the now as she was at 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, and may both have safe travels ahead.

Distractions While Reading Outside

1.
The unexpected appearance of familiar companions.

2.
The mouth-watering smell of soup simmering, wafting through the kitchen door.

3.
The hummingbird that has taken up residence, reminding me of my deceased friend Betsy, who enjoyed them from this same summer vantage point.

4.

Missing Betsy.

A Visit with Friends

The view from their kitchen opens onto a lush garden, shimmering in late August purples, lavenders, rose pinks, golden yellows, and green grass, green leaves punctuated by red berries or crabapples. The hummingbirds battle at the feeder, one taking command from his perch on a perfectly shaped twig just above and beyond and the others zooming in from over the treehouse or the neighboring church.

Outside, teeming activity, but inside, the people keep to a different rhythm: one tethered to an oxygen line, the other to him; and when, in their company, I look out, I see through a glass, darkly.

Hummingbird Quidditch

Within minutes after I refreshed the hummingbird feeder late this afternoon, two birds started their hummingbird ballet. Watch them, and you'll know where J. K. Rowling got her idea for quidditch. They dart and dive and peck at each other. Even when perched on the feeder, the hummer will sip and look up and about, sip and look up and about, like some nervous high school student cheating and thinking he's getting away with it. It's the hummingbird chirp I most like and the whir of their wings (beating at something like 80 times a second) as the zip past my nose, oblivious to my presence. No wonder they need so much sugar water.