It’s 5:00 a.m. when I hear the baby crying. The house is still dark, with only a hint of
light on the horizon. Yet, it is still enough to excite the wood thrush, and I
listen for a second as he wakens the world with his flute-like melodies. “Ee-Oo-Lay!”
over and over it repeats, music to my ears.
No human has yet achieved what the wood thrush has mastered for
centuries, i.e., the ability to produce two sounds at once, creating a duet of
harmonies echoing with all their breath through their vocal chambers. So much music from such a small and fragile
creature.
The baby is frightened, of what I do not know. I cuddle him a bit, change his diaper, and he
gazes at me with a grin. All is well now,
and he is ready to play. But it is still
3 hours from his regular waking time, and I know the consequences it will bring
if I let myself be enticed by that playful smile and those eager eyes. I carry him back to his dark room, lay him
gently in his crib, and stroke his forehead.
He whimpers a bit, knowing what is next, but does not fight. He, too, I think, knows that now is not the
time for play. He closes his eyes and I
gently shut the door.
The house is still now, and other than the baby, I am the
only one in it. The rest of my family is scattered. One son at Grandma’s next door, where he
spent the night probably staying up too late and eating too much popcorn. One son 400 miles away, in St. Louis,
visiting old friends with his Daddy and having big adventures with his
grandparents while Daddy works. Tomorrow,
Lord willing, we will all be reunited again, but for now, it is just me and the
morning and the wood thrush.
I head out to the garden, baby monitor in one pocket, pocket
knife in the other. The garden has been
neglected for a week and the crab grass and squash bugs now have the
advantage. I open the gas tank on the
tiller. There isn’t much gas in it and I
debate whether or not to add more.
However, it is a long walk back to the garage to get the gas can, and so
I say a little prayer that there will be just enough, set the choke, and yank the pull cord hard. The tiller coughs and
sputters but finally starts.
As I work my way down the rows, I get lost in my
thoughts. Seeing the weeds overtaking my
row of flowers gives me a story idea. In
many moments of my days, there is a story idea, but I rarely follow their
leads. Perhaps this one will be
different.
The green beans hang from vines, ready to be picked, but not
today. Time is running out, the baby will awake again soon. I shuttle the tiller back to the shed,
running on fumes. One prayer answered
already, and the day has just begun. I
close the garden gate and walk through the cobwebs down the wooded path, back
to the house. The spiders waste no time
each night rebuilding their walls of web and waiting for an unsuspecting gnat
or, in my case, human, to blunder into them.
I pass our little statue of the Blessed Mother and notice that the
flowers in the Mason jar have turned brown.
With only a minute to spare, I backtrack to the field, pull out the
pocket knife, and pick a hasty bouquet of Queen Anne’s lace and Black-eyed
Susans. Returning to the statue, I tuck
the flowers into their jar and tell her good morning. Her arms, always open, give me a spiritual
hug. I look at the three graves around
her, nearly covered with summer-growing vines, and imagine her standing with my
three children, arms around them, waiting for me.
The sun is above the trees now and I can feel the heat of
the day pushing hard against the edge of morning. I step up onto the front
porch, pull off my boots and look east.
The wood thrush is silent now and will sing no more today. Let the day begin.
