Wednesday, April 27, 2005

tragedy

We have experienced a small tragedy this day. In the greater scheme of things, it's barely a blip, but here goes.

Two Weeks Ago...
After years of speculation I finally buy a fern to hang on my front porch, and converse at length with the farmer who sold it to me about caring for it. I plan to fertilize every two weeks and water each day during the long hot summer.

One and a Half Weeks Ago...
I look out of Jerry's window onto the front porch and think I see a bird flying away from the fern. I will check it out later.

One Week Ago...
I am pulling my fern down from the hook to water it and notice that, in fact, two birds have built a nest. I am surprised by the ability of these small birds to make such quick work of this delicate job. The nest is perfectly shaped and looks durable. I swiftly decide that although I love my fern, I will sacrifice it if the birds persist.

Four Days Ago...
Lo and behold, an egg! My desire for a fern that gracefully adorns my front porch takes a back seat to the learning opportunity presented for Jerry and me. That look on his face when I say, "Jerry! An egg!" He carefully peeks inside, then looks at me with such a face of wonder. "We'll check back tomorrow," I say.

Three Days Ago...
Today there are two eggs, and the excitement is growing. We make a plan to check for more eggs each night after supper

Two Days Ago...
Three eggs. I can hardly believe it.

One Day Ago...
You guessed it, four eggs.

This afternoon...
Jerry and I are busy cleaning up his room. We are setting up new shelves to organize the mess of toys. When we get to putting the trucks away, I see through the window that the fern is not on the hook, but resting on the porch. Before a second passes, I am thinking...I didn't water it today...did I forget to put it back up?...the wind...no...

I rush through the front door and slowly approach. The fern is tipped and one broken egg lays a few inches away. Another egg is broken in the leaves of the plant. I see the third egg, unbroken on the porch, but as I pick it up it breaks in my hand. I finally see the last egg nestled in the fronds on my beloved fern. I am able to place it back in the nest gently, but it seems very alone.

Think of the feeling when that first egg appeared! Such delight and excitement. Now as we stare at the single egg, there is no promise of things to come, no hope. The mother bird will likely not return. "Poor babies," Jerry laments. And I am sad.

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