Do Bluebirds Cry?
After much activity in and out and to-ing and fro-ing, the bluebird couple abruptly abandoned the nesting box in my backyard. I know there was at least one fledgling because I saw it hop/fly across the deck and then into the bamboo fence line. After a week or so of no activity, I opened their box and discovered a dead baby bird, with a few glistening blue feathers among the bedraggled brown and gray. I carried the tiny body in the nest to the bamboo thicket and laid it in among the stalks. The man at the bird store told me the parents would probably not return to use the box again.
I wanted to ask him if birds feel grief, or if they just know that some horror happened there.
When my son died, we buried him in his warmest clothes because it was January and bitter cold with snow on the ground—navy blue, flannel-lined corduroy pants, a soft shirt, new underwear, socks that the undertaker’s wife kindly took from her own son’s chest of drawers because I had forgotten to include them for this journey to the underworld. In his nest, we also included a few of his favorite things…a stuffed animal, a necklace I wore. Tokens for the ferryman. I was unable to visit his grave for years. Decades later, I finally had a stone made for the site with his name on it, but after one visit to see it in place, I haven’t been able to return. I don’t know if this means I rolled a stone in front of my own heart or if my heart is a stone. I want to be able to tie up this story with a neat ending that makes sense of a little boy dying, but all I can say is that I understand why the bluebirds flew away. Years ago, I tried to do the same in my own way.
Nikki Hardin is a writer of stories, musings, and memories. Her poetry has been published in Riverteeth Journal. She was the founder and publisher of skirt!, a monthly women’s magazine in Charleston, South Carolina. You can reach her at nikki@thedailynikki.com.