Before and After - Chapter 2

The Birds and the Bees


The tree is so big. I crouch on a branch and it seems that the ground is hundreds of feet below. Maybe millions. Gagillions. I close my eyes and feel a breeze bring to life little shivers on my neck. When I open my eyes, I see the yellowy-green leaves of the weeping willow tree twirling, like a ballerina, in the wind.

Summer days, when the sun passes in between perfectly formed, puffy cumulus clouds, and the grass is green and soft to the touch, and the smell of the pine trees and flowers are inhaled, and the sound of crickets and birds fills the air; ah, those days are the making life to a little child, such as myself.


When I was only 4 years old my parents moved in to the adjoining side of my grandparent’s duplex. My parents were both rather poor. At this point in my life we had already moved 4 times, once every year. This was a great opportunity for them to save up some money to move out of our foreclosable apartments to something a little better. And we did, eventually.

My grandfather, a dark, quiet, and enormous Irish man owned the property, but for some reason we all called it “Grandma’s”. Grandma had such an interesting personality. She has a brilliant, talented woman who hides her beauty away from the world. Perhaps it is a form of protection.

I remember summers at my Grandma’s in a sort of bright blur, like a picture you take in the sun’s glare. Everything shines and glows, and I can simply see myself existing in the world with everything else, the trees, the bees, and the birds.

A great deal of my time would be spent with my Aunt Kathleen, one of my mom’s younger sisters. My mom had me at the age of 19, and Kathy was only 18 that year. I admired her, despite her youth. She always had such straight, long auburn hair. She was strong, too, but in a rather pleasant Irish way. She always bought me little things of chapstick and earrings. I adored her and followed her everywhere.

When we went out to the store together, people would mistakenly assume that she was my mother, we looked so much alike. I loved that I looked like her, and I loved the idea of her as my mother. She was funny, too. We used to play the “cup game”, in which we’d hold our hands in an open fist and fill it with all sorts of imaginary gross stuff; hair, toenails, teeth, and coca-cola.

On certain sweet-weathered days I would be allowed to run free outside. The duplex was on 2 ½ acres of land and was surrounded by fields and other homes. When I was released from the confinement of Barney, the purple dinosaur inside, I was the most joyful child. I’d pretend I was a fairy, and I would climb the ancient weeping-willow tree as high as I could.

On this particular day, this is where I was perched. Like a bird, I gripped my feet onto the branches and commanded the willowy leaves to be still. Then, as though a magical spell had commenced, the breeze died down and the world was mine. I giggled with childish delight at this power.

But then, oh! A terrible monster was climbing down after me. With enormous purple-teeth, and shiny yellow scales he began sliding down branch after branch. Terrified, I leapt from my branch and down to the ground. I had fallen softly on the grass, and my hands had prevented my complete collapse. The green blades squished between my knuckles. Just as I was about to rise up and command the monster’s end, I noticed it. There! Amidst the green was a little bit of blue.

My imaginary monster disappeared above me, as I brushed the grass from off the object. It was round and ever so small. I placed my tiny fingers on its edges and gently picked it up. The way it rolled in my hand was so beautiful, and I slowly stood up in absolute wonderment. I cupped the egg in my hand and sought out my Aunt Kathy. I found her on the front stoop listening to her stereo. I looked up at her smiling blue eyes and with childlike adoration told her “I want to take care of it, Kathy.”

Kathy was just as enamored of the egg as I was. “It’s a robin’s egg,” she told me, her eyes glittering. I didn’t want her to touch it, and she didn’t take it from my hand. She twisted her auburn locks and helped me understand about the egg.

“Well, if you’re going to take care of a baby bird, you need to know where baby birds live. Do you know where a baby robin lives?” asked Kathy, confidently assuring me that I did know the answer. She was destined to be an elementary school teacher.

I nodded, and excitedly shouted, “Nests!”

Kathy laughed, and said, “You’re absolutely right. Now, where are you going to get a nest?”

I was baffled for a moment. I ran to the tree and began searching the branches with my eyes. I couldn’t see a nest anywhere. I returned to Kathy, defeated.

But she did not give up so easily. “Well, if a bird can make a nest, I bet you can make a nest.”

The idea hadn’t occurred to me, although now that Kathy had suggested it, I immediately knew it was the correct answer. I collected dry grass from the yard and started carefully weaving together a home for the egg. Kathy leapt at the opportunity to help, and went into the kitchen to get a jug of water. Together, we poured the water into a dirt hole I had made with my hands. Fingernails caked in dirt, I began mixing together the water and soil to make mud. I churned and, using the mud and grass I began the project of being a mother.

I felt honored, excited, and powerful as I took on the sacred duty. In my blue gingham dress I was simply the earth and love, all wrapped in one. I could paste the grass into the nest, tuck the egg inside and it would be safe. I had placed the egg on the grass next to my project. Kathy had told me she would watch it. I folded and weaved and mudded the nest until I finally had a rounded muddy grass thing, which I called a nest.

It was hot and sunny that day, and within minutes the moist soil had dried and hardened. Kathy and I sat, cross-legged on the ground, and watched the nest dry. I took my dirtied hands and picked up the egg. Staring at it now I noticed thousands of details I had missed in its discovery. It was blue, yes, but it was also covered in little speckles. I traced the spots with my finger, and murmured words of love to the baby bird.

“I think the nest is dry now, Siobhan,” Kathy said gently, pointing to the object at my feet.

Cupping the egg in my hands, I gently tucked it into the softest part of the nest I could find. My hands trembled as I let the egg go, but I looked down at it cuddled up with the grass and laughed.

“You know, Siobhan, a bird egg needs to be kept very warm. Usually, a mommy bird will sit on top of the eggs to keep them safe and warm. I don’t think you can sit on the egg, but maybe you could put something on top of it to keep it warm?” Kathy nudged my brain into thinking.

My mind raced with things that provided warmth – sun, blankets, tea, oodles ‘n noodles, stuffed animals – nothing seemed to fit. Then it hit me! The dead grass which now, mid-summer, filled the yard would be perfect. I pulled tufts of the grass up from around me and began padding the baby bird egg. I was so excited, too. I pulled two big clumps of dead grass, one in each hand. I leaned over the nest and pushed them down on top.

Like the princess and the pea, I suddenly knew that something beneath me wasn’t right. For a moment I was bewildered, and then I felt an oozy something around my fingers, which were still lying in the nest. I pulled my hands up and examined them. They were covered in a yellow substance. Already crying, I grabbed at the grass that had covered my beloved egg. There, at the bottom of the nest was the blue speckled beauty, but it was all in pieces!

I don’t quite remember the aftermath. I know that shortly after the squishing I was tucked away inside, safe and away from the death. Grandma wrapped me in my favorite quilt and put on the television. She poured me a cup of tea and made some soup to eat. In between sobs I would try to spoon a bit of broth into my lips, but it didn’t work. I had done something awful, and I knew I should be punished.

The rest of the afternoon I stayed inside on the plastic-covered sofa and mourned the death of my baby. No one spoke to me about it, although Kathy and my Aunt Bernadette offered me sweets and games to try to get my spirits up. Nothing worked.

I sat and thought about the crime I had committed that afternoon. Surely, Grandma had let me off easy. What would mom and dad say? Oh, I had forgotten about them. What would they do? Was there some way they wouldn’t find out? I thought of the Cat-and-the-Hat. Maybe someone would clean up the mess and mom or dad would never have to know. I began crying again.

I was sitting on the couch, contemplating these things when I heard the car pull up in the driveway outside. I felt my stomach lurch, and I began sobbing. I broke out into half-sobs, half-hiccups and cuddled up into a ball.
I closed my eyes, but I could hear the side-door open and my mom’s melodious voice moving through the rooms. “Hello, Ma. How was she today?” Mom asked, and I could hear the smile in her words.

There was some whispered mumbling from the kitchen. I heard a gasp, a laugh, and other sounds equally perplexing. I kept crying, louder now. I was so afraid of what she was going to do to me.

“Siobhan, are you in the living room?” I heard my mom ask from the kitchen.

I didn’t reply, but I knew she’d see me as soon as she moved through the doorframe. Surely I wasn’t hard to miss, a sobbing little ball on the sofa.

“Honey,” my mom said, and she was next to me now. I felt the couch sag a little as she sat down next to me. The plastic covering made crinkly noises beneath the added weight, and my head sunk down a tad. “Honey, are you alright?” she asked, clearly concerned.

Sobbing, I sat up and told her everything, down to the last detail. I buried my face in her large breasts and moaned. “Shhh, Siobhan. It’s alright. Everything’s alright,” she said, trying to show affection by patting my back.

“It’s – all – my – fault!” I cried to her there. “Are – you – going – to…to spank me?” I jerked away, momentarily.

“No, no, no, darling,” mom said, pulling me back towards her, “it’s alright. It’s not your fault, sweetie. How were you to know? Don’t worry about it, ok?” she murmured quietly.

My sobs were less-frequent now, and I was quieter. I lay wrapped in my mom’s expansive arms and closed my eyes. I felt sleepy and everything felt dream-like. I heard Grandma talking to my mom, about the day’s happening. I felt the extreme summer day’s warmth melt into a softer, cooler dusk.

As Mom and Grandma continued talking, I sat up on the sofa. There was a large wet spot on my mom’s shirt, from where I’d been crying. I folded my hands in my lap and sat deciding for a moment. Then I slid off the couch and walked towards the side door. I turned around to make sure no one was paying attention. Engrossed in their conversation, the adults seemed distant. I reached up for the doorknob, and went outside.

The day had passed while I’d been inside. Although not dark, the entire Earth seemed to be blue. Shadows melted with one another and the first stars were beginning to appear. I searched the pine trees and the willow for some sign of life. Everything was quiet.

Nervously, I tip-toed towards the center of the front yard. There, beneath the berry-tree was the mud-hole that Kathy and I had made earlier. I peered inside, but the mushy soil had sunk deep into the ground. The black depths of the hole mixed with the blue grass, and I couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. I didn’t care. I was looking for the remains.

I anxiously gazed at the ground, expecting at any moment to find the destroyed nest and bird body. After a few moments, I sat down on the ground, puzzled. There was no nest to be found. It had disappeared while I was inside.

I began biting my fingernail, which had broken at some point during the day. I searched the sky for an answer, although I knew there wasn’t one there. I listened to the sounds of the bats flying overhead, and to the distant yell of coyotes.

It was then that I realized that maybe the day hadn’t happened at all. I began replaying the day in my head. Surely, I didn’t find a bird egg! That’s silly, I told myself. I must have imagined I’d done all those things. That was the word mom and dad were always using. Imagine.

I stood up, lightly. The air suddenly felt fresher, and I danced around in the yard for a few moments. I tried to do a jig, which my Grandma had taught me a day or two before, but I only fumbled around, my arms and legs flying in all directions. The sun had set, though, and the evening was colder than the day. I listened to the call of a bird somewhere off in the distance, and then trotted inside where I knew a cup of tea and a bowl of soup were waiting for me.