The Song Byrd

For the first time I hated every second of it. Each new bead of sweat was like a tiny weight adding to the others that were already to heavy to carry. I managed to take a few more steps before collapsing. It wasn't just the moisture seeping from my pores that weighed me down. Everything seemed ponderous; my thoughts, the feeling in my chest, the air itself. It was all just too heavy.

My November solo trip to Hull Hills was usually the highlight of my year. When September and October days were sunny and nights were cool without frost, I was met with a vibrant canopy of gold, orange and red. Bare gray branches stretched toward the clouds after dry Summers or frigid Falls, which made for great sunset views and an endless starry sky. Some Novembers called for light jackets and trail runners, others a down coat, gloves and boots. The joy of the latter was catching a glimpse of a waterfall frozen in time, a hanging crystal glittering in dim sunlight. I hadn't thought much about what I'd find this year. The preparation wasn't much more than emptying drawers, pulling items off hangers, filling bags and packing them in the car. My throat was usually raw and scratchy from belting out 90s R&B by the time I reached the cabin, but this time it felt just fine. Since my grandmother died, this trip was mostly just routine.

You see, my grandmother was pure light. She was like the crepuscular rays that sneak through the clouds, each beam joy, peace, love, kindness and all things good. She cherished nature accepting it as one of God's greatest gifts. I don’t believe she'd ever even dug her feet in sand or heard the crash of ocean waves but a sparrow’s song or the shade of an oak tree was enough for her to burst into tears of praise. Those threads were weaved into the fabric of my being. It was surprising, then, that the empty branches above my head reminded me of nothing more than creaky skeletons, and the damp leaves beneath my feet a soggy swamp. Only about half way through my hike I decided upon surrender. I trudged back to the cabin hoping to try again the next day.

I gathered logs from the back and stacked them in the fireplace. Perhaps a good fire would kindle some joy. Sitting in the rocker, cup of cocoa in hand and blanket over my lap, I'd usually be in heaven. Instead the wool was slightly itchy on my shins, the chocolate a little too sweet and pitch of the crackling wood slightly annoying. The thought of heading to the porch to watch the sunset floated into my mind but quickly disappeared with a glance at the skeleton branches outside of the window. I sauntered to bed, no mind to waiting for the fire to burn out.

I was jolted awake by the squawking of a bird. My brain adjusted from silence and darkness to the bright black, red and wood of my room. No dreams. Again. With no confidence that today would be any different than the day before I showered, brushed my teeth and dressed. Stepping out of the door, I immediately regretted my disregard of the forecast and careless packing. Steam leaked from my mouth and nose with each breath and my jacket provided little relief from the deep chill. I headed toward the path that was most familiar hoping that something would evoke nostalgia. Although the naked trees didn't provide shade, the breeze seemed to become more bitter as I trekked deeper into the forest. The brown, grey and occasionally orange or yellow canvas left much to be desired. Squirrels chittered and ran across my path, likely collecting the last of their provisions before everything froze over. I paid them little mind. A streak of red caught my eye, high up at first then settling on an eye level branch. Somehow, I was unimpressed. The overwhelming lack of green occupied my attention. It was my grandmother's favorite color. I ambled along not noticing much more until I heard the whisper of a waterfall. Still searching for something that would summon emotion, I headed in that direction. The whisper became a roar and I sunk to the ground leaning my back against a tree. I stared as the water leaped from the ledge and freefell to join the river below. As I watched the foam gather my mind was busy at work while my heart remained silent. My grandmother was 98 years old so I'd had a lot of time to think about how it'd be when she left this Earth. I'd imagined that I would see her face in the sunset; that I'd hear her whisper in the breeze and her sweet soprano in the bird's song. More than anything, I knew I'd feel her presence with me out here in this forest. I didn't. She was just...gone. That thought was like a punch in the gut. I rose quickly to my feet, my mind had already shifted to the cabin, the car and the highway back home. I marched ahead until my mind and body were back in sync. That was when I realized that nothing looked familiar. I walked ahead a bit hoping to get back on track. Nothing. I slowly jogged in the other direction. Still nothing. In this forest I'd frequented so many times, I was lost. Then there it was, something I hadn't felt in months; emotion. It was anger. Pure, fiery, unadulterated anger. I fell to my knees kicking up a cloud of dirt. My tears made a puddle of mud between my fists. The forest that once brought me peace now seemed to be my adversary. The sound of the birds and crickets was mocking and the ants teased as they marched their known path home. I kneeled there, like a child, sobbing and screaming until exhaustion no longer allowed. Anger slowly melted and I fell, weak, into a sea of sadness. With my face flat on the cold dirt trail I saw fluttering in the leaves nearby. Brief curiosity was stifled by sorrow. My body lay heavy, the tears now a tiny, dark trickling river. I was content to settle into my dejection but the repeated fluttering wouldn't allow it. Against my will, I lifted to my knees, then my feet and stumbled over to the pile of leaves. A chaotic blur of rust, black and white struggled at my feet. When it tired to the point of rest I was able to make out that it was a bird. I cleared the leaves away to reveal a sparrow with it's wing lodged beneath a rock. She looked up at me as longingly as a sparrow can. I lifted the rock and she remained still. I didn't know much about birds but I figured that her wing was damaged and she couldn't fly. I cupped her in my hand and held her close to my chest. I was lost, she was hurt; we might as well go in this journey together. I walked along, still quite unsure of where I was going. The first new thing I noticed was the iridescence of the dragonflies zipping by; surprisingly quite beautiful. Next, the deep red leaf barely hanging on to the branch of an oak tree. A chipmunk skittered by, it's bronze fur reflecting an illusive ray of sunlight. It continued down the path and ran under a bush. I stopped in my tracks. I calmed the bird as, startled, she flapped her uninjured wing. The bush was green. Hopeful, I said a quick prayer, the silent kind that go straight from your heart to God. As I looked ahead, several more green bushes, just like the first, bordered the dirt path. I followed them until I could see the spot where I'd surrendered and turned back the day before in the distance. Tears flowed but this time the emotion was joy. As if from the juke box of my heart and beyond my control I hummed the tune of Jesus Loves Me, my grandmother's favorite song, as I strolled toward the cabin. I was exhausted and the sun was already setting so I gently sat the bird on the porch rail and rested in a rocker to enjoy the remainder of its descent. In the darkness I moved the bird to the sill outside my bedroom window. I'd figure out where to get her help in the morning.

The light shined gently through the gap in my curtain but I was awakened by a song bird. I peeled the covers back and walked over to the window. My eyes adjusted to the light and there was the sparrow sitting on the sill, singing sweetly. The rays of the sun poked through the clouds, each seemed to have its distinct destination. As I marveled at the scene the bird tuned toward the sky and took flight. It disappeared in the clouds and I was blanketed by a new emotion; overwhelming peace.

~ Written in loving honor of my Grandmother, Barbara J. Byrd