Flying Around Mountains

Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.—Edna St. Vincent Millay

Yesterday morning as I was brushing my teeth, I heard a thump. I recognized the sound immediately. Another bird had hit one of our windows. I held my breath as I walked outside to investigate. Sure enough, a red-breasted robin lay on the red carpet beneath the window just outside our living room. As I watched, one of the robin’s legs twitched, then relaxed and rested limp upon the earth. I believe I saw the light go out of its eyes.

I’ve placed a dollhouse and a chair inside our living room against the glass; the chair is tall but not tall enough to stop the birds from trying to fly through those windows. We could place decals on the windows that would alert the birds, but we’ve never purchased them, hoping the birds would simply know to avoid the glass. “It’s a matter of aesthetics,” my husband says. “I don’t want to stick anything on the windows.” And so we live as the casualties die. Only two weeks ago, I found two small, multicolored birds on the red carpet. They were such beautiful, delicate creatures; the whole family felt the loss. My husband and our six-year-old, Lily Rose, equipped with rubber gloves, carried the birds to the ivy in our backyard, and gently placed them down. She said goodbye sadly but without tears.

As I studied this robin, I thought how this was not a ritual I wanted to see become routine. Was he truly dead or merely stunned, as occasionally happens. I kept hoping that the next time I returned to check, the bird would be gone. It would stand up on unsteady legs, flap its wings for good measure, and eventually take off to join its pals in the nest. No such luck. Around dinnertime, the bird was still there.

That night, I decided to read Lily one of the Little House on the Prairie books, and wouldn’t you know, in the first chapter, Laura Ingalls’ dog died. Laura fluffed the dog’s bed, he licked her hand and looked up at her with sad, loving eyes, then arthritically circled the bed three times, lay down, went to sleep and never woke up. I choked up.

“That’s sad, isn’t it Lily?”

“What Mommy?”

“That the dog died.”

“Oh, I thought he just wasn’t feeling well.”

“No sweetie. He died. He was old.” A moment’s pause in the conversation followed. I could hear Lily thinking.

“Candy almost died didn’t she, Mom?” Candy is our nine-year-old dog.

“Yes, she did, and someday she will die—but not for a long time,” I hastily added. Damn! Why had I said that? Lily’s eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t want Candy to die,” she said, as she began to cry.