“Lana,” Mama says. “Will you fetch the birds their food?”
Though I am loath to do it on a
day like this—when the sky is overcast and threatening rain—I know that Mama
will be disappointed if I do not do it. As such, I nod, turn my head to face
her, and say, “Yes, Mama.”
Her smile is radiant despite her
fragility, and brings with it that subtle twang of emotion that makes me
thankful that she is still alive after all this time.
Rising from my place on the
floor, I make my way out of the living room and begin my trek toward the back
of the house.
At the entrance to the cellar, I
pause before opening the door. Then, I descend.
Fetching the birds their food
from the cellar is a task I have become accustomed to over the years. At the
time of the EMP strike over five years ago, I was only twelve, and filled with
fear over what might happen to us. These were truly dark times, and not just
because the power was gone. Filled with struggle, with doubt, with fear and
worry, we’d always wonder where our next meal would come from, especially when
we were in the city. Choosing to move out here, to our cabin in the wilds of
Texas, was quite possibly the best decision we ever made.
Nowadays, life has become
routine. Most days, I wake up, brush my hair, clean my teeth, then rouse Mama
from bed and help her into the chair near the window. Some days, we’ll even see
the neighbors from just down the road. They’re always kind enough to trade us
for supplies when they go into the city, since I have taken to growing fresh
vegetables in the garden out back. Bird food in particular is one of Mama’s
routine requests, and is one of the few things in life that makes my mother
happy.
As I set foot within the cellar,
I lift my eyes to face the small window pane that is frosted with spiderwebs,
then scan the shelving units until I come upon the grain that the Smiths last
brought from the city.
Enough for a few weeks, I think.
With that in mind, I step
forward, crouch down, take the plastic bird feeding cup in hand, and dip it
into the gutted sack of grain, careful not to take too much or too little.
Birds are greedy, Mama would say. They, too, are hungry—
And intelligent, she would often
add. They always want seconds.
After securing the cellar door in
place, I make my way back into the living room.
Mama is waiting there, in her old
rocking chair, a shawl about her shoulders and a comforter over her waist,
which she grips tight with hands that are far too old for her age. The
arthritis has taken her body, twisted her fingers and made her weak. She’s
always kept her ailments from me; and though I wish I knew what all was wrong,
she refuses to tell me.
A woman always keeps her secrets, she once said.
My hand upon her shoulder is
enough to startle her.
“Lana,” she says. “You scared
me.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I brought the
grain.”
“Good, good. Now—go feed the
birds.”
I’m just about to turn and make
my way out the front door when her hand catches my wrist.
“Mama?” I ask, and frown. “Is
everything all right?”
“I just… wanted to tell you that
I loved you.”
“Thank you,” I say, and lean down
to kiss her cheek. “I love you, too.”
Outside, I whistle to call the
birds, then go to work sprinkling the grain along the front porch, ensuring
that it’s in view of my mother’s window. Most days, we get pigeons.
Sometimes, blue jays, and even cardinals passing into the area will arrive to
take their fill. I hope today is one of those days, if only for my mother’s
sake.
As I stand here, before the
window, and look into the distance, I long for a time in which I didn’t have to
worry—a time in which I didn’t have to take care of a poor, ailing
mother.
Always be thankful for the things you have, my mother once said.
“Yes,” I say to myself. “Always
be thankful.” My life is not as hard as those lived by others.
The birds won’t come while I’m
still outside. For that reason, I turn to step inside—
Only to find that Mama’s gaze is
fixed.
“Mama?” I ask, stepping toward
the window. “Mama?”
Normally, her gaze wanders about
the porch, and she greets me with a smile upon my return. Today, though, she is
just staring.
I can’t rush into the house fast
enough.
“Mama?” I ask, setting my hand on
her shoulder. “Is everything all right?”
She blinks to focus her gaze back
on me. Her breathing is shallower than normal, and coming only in short bursts
and gasps. “Lana,” she says.
“Yes?”
“The birds.” She takes hold of my
arms.
“What about them?” I ask,
struggling to maintain my composure as I settle my gaze upon her. “Please… talk
to me.”
“Promise me you’ll feed them,”
she says, her voice growing raspier, weaker. “Promise me!”
“I promise, Mama! I promise!”
Her wrist trembles, and her eyes
roll into the back of her head.
“Mama?” I ask, taking hold of her
upper arms. “What’s going on? Tell me! Tell
me!”
She offers the briefest of smiles
as her gaze settles on the window behind me. “They’ve come,” she says.
Then, shortly thereafter, her
smile fades.
Her grip on my arms slackens. Her
shoulders slump.
For a moment, I am unsure what
exactly has happened. I stand here—rooted to the spot. Then, slowly, it dawns
on me.
My mother isn’t moving. She isn’t
thinking. She isn’t breathing.
I reach forward to take her
pulse, and wait for it to come.
It never does.
As I draw my hand away—and as the
shock begins to settle into my system—I find myself trembling anew.
I want so desperately to
scream—to take hold of her shoulders and shake her, to tell her no, that she
needs to live, especially for me—but
I know I can’t.
No.
My mother is dead, and there is
nothing I can do about it.
The birds, I think.
Slowly, I lean forward and close
my mother’s eyes.
Then, I turn to face the window.
Outside, in a world that is no
longer our own, the birds have come to eat the grain. There are all manners of
them. Blackbirds. Starlings. A few robins. A pigeon. But it is the bird at the
end of the porch that catches my eye.
A dove—pure and white and
fletched with gray—looks up at me.
Through the tears streaming down
my face, I find myself looking at the creature who my mother said would one day
come.
When the last bird flies, she once said, it will be a dove.
“A dove,” I whisper.
I step toward the window. Place
my hand on the windowpane. Breathe deeply the musty air.
Then, I watch it take flight.