Sustenance
Christinia Robertson
©
Copyright 2021 by Christina Robertson
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For
that one moment, we were all saved.
I
pulled up to the curb and saw my neighbor standing, wrapped in a
sweater, outside her house. “Thank god you’re home”,
she called as I got out of the car. “I need help.”
Chris
had been ill. Cancer had returned after fifteen good years. Living
alone, tolerating treatments, she was prone to episodes of stone cold
fear, florid loneliness. I sympathized, truly, but hadn’t
wanted to establish myself as the person on call, the one she would
rely on, didn’t want that intimate responsibility. Still, we
had been neighbors for nearly twenty years and I liked her,
enigmatic, sensitive soul that she was. I hoped maybe she just needed
to talk, some reassurance, or, perhaps, had simply locked herself out
of the house. But, here she was, tears streaming down her face,
begging my assistance. I was worried it was something I wouldn’t
be able to fix, I wouldn’t be equipped to handle. I was right.
“I
don’t know what to do! There has been a tiny bird sitting on
the rose trellis outside my window since last night…all
through the rainstorm and wind and cold, it hasn’t moved! I’m
afraid it is dying! I can’t bring myself to touch it. I thought
you might know what to do!”
Looked
upon as the neighborhood encyclopedia on birds, I am really just your
average appreciator. But, as an amateur gardener and overall Nature
lover I’ve somehow managed to become the go to for the
definitive word on anything that grows or creeps around. Chris
believed I would know just what to do in this situation and I
certainly didn’t want to let her down. I was, however, filled
with trepidation because, in terms of animal behavior, I am basically
clueless.
Nervously,
I left the sidewalk and tiptoed carefully through Chris’
frontage, a tangle of Bridal Wreath and climbing roses, making my way
slowly toward a very tiny gray tuft atop the iron trellis that
leveled itself at the base of Chris’ living room window. I was
hoping to find it to be a clot of earth and grass, or maybe a scrap
of wet newspaper that blew and caught in a funny place, plastered
onto this trellis. But as I got closer, it did appear to be a bit of
fur. It was a field mouse, or so I thought, and it had died, right
there, frozen to the top of the iron perch, perhaps in the surprising
cold we endured in the early November blast last night. I drew closer
then and noticed it had no ears or tail that I could determine. The
odd little creature was sopping wet. It seemed to be moving slightly,
tottering, in the way I had seen our old parakeet rock on the perch
before it dropped to its death. This weird little scrap of flesh
wasn’t dead, not yet.
“What
kind of bird is it?” Chris called out.
“I’m
not so sure it’s a bird,” I said, “Could be a field
mouse or a vole…” But what would either of those
critters be doing at the top of a trellis in the rain? On the other
hand, I’d never seen such a minute bird, nor one that would
ride out an overnight rainstorm out in the open.
“It’s
a sweet little bird, I know it.” She repeated, convinced.
Sure
enough, as I stood motionless and stared, it turned its head slightly
and I glimpsed a long, black, needle-like bill. Goodness, this tiny
being was a hummingbird! But what was it doing sitting in the cold
rain, unprotected?
I
turned to look at Chris. “You’re right. You won’t
believe this, but I’m pretty sure it’s a hummingbird! A
very wet hummingbird!” The news only made her begin
wringing her hands.
“What
do we do?” Her voice was shaky, pathetic. I was picturing how
weird this whole scenario might look to someone passing by.
“Well,
we probably should just leave it alone,” I said, “Let
Nature do its thing…I’m sure it knows what to do for
itself.”
This
was not comforting to Chris whose face was shiny with tears beneath
her limp, thinning hair. “But it may have gotten too cold last
night! It may be too weak to fly. There has to be something…”
Seeing
how distraught she was, I threw myself towards the first idea that
came to mind, regardless of its clumsiness or silliness. I ran up the
stairs into my house, found an old wool sock of my husband’s
and rolled it, fashioning it into a nest. When I emerged again with
my man made nest, Chris was disappointed. She voiced doubt it would
work, even that I would be able to succeed in picking the tiny thing
up and depositing it inside the cup of the sock without dropping it
or scaring it to death. “It’s too fragile!” Chris
warned.
I
had no idea what to do. This woman was counting on me and I was
drawing a blank slate. I felt stupid and inept. And though I was
compelled to try something—anything—I was also afraid
that whatever attention I paid to this delicate, drenched pixie of a
creature, the interaction itself would prove fatal. That certainly
wasn’t what I wanted poor Chris, in her own life so alone and
afraid, to witness. I knew there was a lot more riding on this
mission than met the eye. The outcome here, if I succeeded, could
deliver much needed encouragement to Chris. It had to do with faith.
I
set the sock nest aside on a step and scanned her garden, then mine.
An inviting twig? But then what? Should I try to build a shelter for
it, maybe with leaves? I knew these ideas were foolish. I spotted my
last chance. Somehow my potted Lantana had survived into November. It
must have been that it was in a very sunny spot, close to the house
and its ambient warmth. I knew hummingbirds were attracted to the
color red. I remembered that from a funny encounter with a Ruby
Throated Hummingbird who hovered close to me as I sipped my coffee on
a screened in porch once on vacation. I’d been wearing a bright
red T-shirt and my host explained this phenomenon to me as we giggled
in amazement, watching the hummer watch me. I went over and plucked a
tiny florette from one of the deepest orange clusters in my plant. I
prayed my version of a prayer.
I
couldn’t have moved any slower. My approach to the shivering
hummingbird was stealthier than a cat’s. I was holding out the
teeny vermillion florette between my fingers. Closer, closer. I
didn’t even breathe or blink my eyes. The tiny being, itself,
blinked, and, to my utter disbelief, pointed its needle-bill toward
my fingers. A long, black, threadlike tongue unfurled from the bill
and reached out to my offering, reached and entered the tiny cup of
the flower and drank from it. I got a chance to see that my
fingertips were bigger than the diminutive bird’s head. When it
finished sucking the mini dram of nectar, the little thing shook
itself dry. It was warm gray and soft, likely a female. She looked
this way and the other, then leapt off the iron trellis, hovered for
a second and darted across the street into the trees.
Chris
and I
stared at each other. Our mouths were open, but speechless. I was
more surprised than she. I hadn’t thought something like that
was possible. I hadn’t thought anything would or could
make a difference. I hadn’t even wanted to get involved. Chris
had been the believer. For that moment in time, we were all saved.
I
am an ex-therapist, ex-floral
designer, writer, and
bird nut (I even embroider them on commission) living in Evanston IL.
My MA and professional background in psychiatric
settings developed
in me a fascination for Nature's terrible and phenomenal beauty
within people. Since retiring, my childhood fascination for other
creatures has come back to me. I am a member of the Off Campus
Writers Workshop and my fiction and creative nonfiction pieces have
appeared in a number of print and on line journals. While I
am a published author I have never made more than $500 a year at
the craft.
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