The Canary's Lament

Margaret looked out her kitchen window, across her small backyard to the Dutch Elm on which a birdhouse had been affixed by her late husband, Alan. Winged creatures came and went, bringing sticks, threads, and whatever else they found suitable to build a home with.

How much longer would she enjoy this view? Her family, ten children in all, who were now spread throughout the United States, were set that this would be her last spring in the home. The home she had built with Alan. The last spring she would spend in the home she had raised those ten children in. In only six weeks Margaret would make the move from her home into an assisted living facility. There are absolutes. Like the sun rising and setting each day. But do not grow comfortable in its warmth. Do not become dependent on its light. It is predicted that even the sun will burn out. It is predicted that the world will be left in darkness. Normal can be easily lost.

But what did she need assistance with? Though she was the age of ninety, she was steady on her feet. She walked to her mailbox each day, bathed herself, dressed herself, cooked her own meals, scheduled and tracked all of her own appointments. She did not drive, not due to advanced age and slow reflexes, she had simply never learned. Her insurance paid for rides to and from doctors visits, and she took rides from the towns senior bus service when needed.

Regardless of how independent she was, her body had been unable to escape the claws age wrapped around it with each passing day. She had gout. The pain was unbearable some days. And there was her heart. It was failing. Per Margaret’s oldest daughter, Vicki, she and her nine siblings were riddled with fear that Margaret’s heart would give out and she would die without anyone knowing.

Hogwash. Margaret was close with her neighbors. Each of whom knew her daily routine. Margaret made sure of that. The O’Keefs across the street knew to watch to ensure that she pulled her drapes by seven every morning. If she had not, they were to come calling. Then there were the Campbells next door. In the event of any precipitation— rain, snow, sleet, hail— one of the Campbell girls was to bring in Margaret’s mail. When it was not raining, Margaret retrieved her mail at the same time the school bus dropped the youngest girl off from school. These patterned behaviors assured that someone knew Margaret was alive and well at least twice a day. And there was Shelly, in the house catty corner to Margaret, with a tragic story of her own, who fulfilled Margaret’s grocery list each week. If Margaret was dead the neighbors would know. If there was any deviation from the routine, the neighbors were to call Jim, Margaret’s son who lived only one hour away.

Jim was the closest of the nine children. The others had scattered themselves through the United States as the seeds of a dandelion on a hot summer’s breeze. Each had an important job. Each had their own family. Each had their own birdhouse to watch in the spring. Each too busy and too important to be a part of their mother’s routine.

Margaret took out the cordless phone she kept in her apron pocket and dialed Mrs. O’Keef. Though it was 2023, she still wore an apron. It was practical. Mrs. O’Keef, who was a modern mother of two toddler boys, would benefit from wearing an apron. Her hands were always full.

“Hello, Margaret,” Mrs. O’Keef answered after just one ring.

“Save your boxes for me,” was all Margaret could say.

“Oh, why is that?” Margaret could hear one of the O’Keef boys fussing in the background but paid it no mind, but remembered when her own children were underfoot.

“I’ll be moving to assisted living in six weeks,” there was no emotion in her voice. Just the facts. If it was just the facts, she could stop the anger and heartbreak from spilling forth.

“Was this your idea?” Margaret was sure Mrs. O’Keef knew it was not.

“The kids, they’re all afraid I’ll die alone.”

“I have a Pull-Ups box. I’ll get shoes on the kids and come over.”

“I would like that very much.” Margaret put the cordless phone back in her pocket and set out the laundry basket filled with decades old toys she kept for young visitors.

Margaret smiled as she watched the little O’Keef boys cross the street, hand in hand, with their mother. The littlest boy stumbled slightly, but recovered, as they walked up the three steps to her front door. The older boy smiled a wide grin and sang, “Grandma Margaret, Grandma Margaret, we are going to play with Grandma Margaret,” as he climbed the steps. Though they were of no blood relation, those children revered her as such.

Margaret invited them in. The boys had been here so many times before they went straight to the basket of toys and put them to work. Mrs. O’Keef handed her the Pull-Ups box and settled on the couch while Margaret put the box in her bedroom.

“I am just in total shock by this,” Mrs. O’Keef wasted no time. “You are so independent. Why are they making you jump immediately to assisted living? Can’t one of the children move in with you, only temporarily? God, Margaret, there are ten of them, they could easily rotate who stays with you.”

“I know. They are just worried about me. They just want me to be safe. But I am so broken up about the entire thing. I absolutely do not want to go. I know this house. The safest place for me is the home I’ve lived in for over sixty years. The doors at the assisted living don’t have locks on them. Someone could easily enter and do terrible things to me. And I’m sure that place is full of ghosts,” Margaret said. She took a breath to calm the anxiety that began to grow in her stomach.

“You’re right. This is a safe place for you. We keep an eye on you. And so do the Campbells, and Shelly,” Mrs. O’Keef waved a hand in the direction of each neighbor’s house respectively. “You need to have a serious talk with those children of yours. You need to tell them, forgive me for being frank, but you need to tell those children what you want your final years to look like. If you want to die right here in this house, you should be able to. This is your home.”

“I’ve tried telling them. And if I press any further, I’m worried I’ll just trouble the waters and make them all mad.”

Mrs. O’Keef huffed a sigh. “Tell them Margaret. Tell them anyway. You are mad. Let them be mad too.” She picked up the pencil and pad Margaret kept on the end table next to the couch, “This is the name and number of the home health agency my cousin’s wife is the director at. Give them call. Maybe your children will agree to a compromise.”

But they did not. When Margaret had brought the idea to Vicki, she would hear none of it. Vicki insisted Margaret needed a caregiver available at all times. Home health would not provide that. The plans had been set. The papers had been signed. Margaret was moving and that was that. She had no choice.

The next six weeks were filled with the task of condensing sixty years of her life into three boxes. Margaret knew she would have to leave most of her treasures behind, and knew they would likely be sold for pennies at an estate sale.

Then there was the house itself. Her children had not decided what to do with it. They had talked of keeping it, considered turning it into a rental. The idea made Margaret sick. She had cared for this home daily for sixty years. She had loved it. Would the walls be stripped bare and painted white? Would the carpets she and Alan walked paths of worn fibers into be torn up and replaced with the godawful gray laminate flooring she saw in every HGTV home renovation show?

Margaret’s nose began to run and tears threatened to escape as the thought of someone else living in her home came into her mind. She reached for a Kleenex from the box amongst the items she had been packing but found the box empty. When she went to the hallway closet to retrieve a replacement she found only one box. At this revelation, the tears fell unceasingly from her eyes. It was the last box of Kleenex Alan had purchased in bulk only a few weeks before had had died over ten years ago. The Kleenexes were gone. Alan was gone. Her time in her home was gone.

Moving day arrived. Margaret bid her neighbors farewell one at a time. She thanked them for the help they had given her through the years. Though she had lived by herself, she was never alone because of each of them.

It was Mrs. O’Keefs turn for a goodbye. Margaret phoned her and within ten minutes Mrs. O’Keef and the little boys crossed to her side of the street. They stayed in the front yard. The boys kicked around an aged soccer ball, unaware this was the last day ‘Grandma Margaret’ would be their neighbor.

“I wanted to thank you, and your husband, Bryce, for looking out for me,” Margaret started, “and for all the help you have given me through the years. I have something for you,” She reached behind herself and untied the worn strings of her apron. She slipped it off and extended it lovingly, in a sunspot covered hand, to Mrs. O’Keef. “I have worn this apron for sixty years. I have patched it time and time again. It is not a pretty thing, but you need to be wearing something with pockets. It will make your life easier. And have Bryce come over and take down the birdhouse on the Dutch Elm. I want you all to have it. The boys will enjoy watching the birds come and go from their own yard.”

To Margaret’s surprise, Mrs. O’Keef’s eyes were lined with tears. She donned the apron. “We won’t know what to do without you around here, Margaret. The boys will miss their Grandma Margaret and her basket of toys terribly.”

“You’ll bring them to visit me, won’t you?” She would. Margaret knew she would.

Shortly after the O’Keefs had left, Jim arrived to take Margaret to what would be her new home. He hurriedly carried the three boxes she had packed to his car and slammed the trunk shut. Her failing heart finally broke as they pulled away from the nest she had painstakingly selected sticks and threads to build. Dread and anger poured from the cracks of her broken heart, flooding her body with a molten rage with each effortful beat. She tried to offer a prayer for a last-minute miracle to stay in her home, but words would not come.

Jim did not speak a word to her on the drive. Soon enough, they pulled up to sterile white building where she was to reside for her final few years on earth. This was the building in which she would become dependent on others. The building to which she would be confined. The building in which she would die.

Upon entering, Margaret was met with the stench of urine and flowers. Her stomach churned with disgust. She would have to get used to the smell. This was her new home after all. A round-gutted man rolled by in a wheelchair, whistling as he passed. He gave a smile and a cheerful wave. Margaret did not smile back. She didn’t smile at the nice enough woman that showed her to her room. She didn’t smile at Jim during the five whole minutes he stayed to settle her in her room.

Supper time came, and Margaret left her room to find the communal dining area. Before she could make it halfway down the hall a nurse stopped her and ushered her into a wheelchair, spouting some nonsense about her being a fall risk. Margaret had never fallen as an adult, but did as she was told. Suddenly, she felt like she had when she was scolded as a child for using scissors without permission.

She wheeled through the hall, pausing when she came to a glass case which housed a single canary perched on a faux wood branch. Its singing was muffled, but she could hear a faint melody trying to escape through the window. What was it singing about? Perhaps it was a lamentation of plastic shrubbery. Perhaps the canary had once had a different home. A home with a loving partner. Maybe it once had neighbors, too. Perhaps it was telling Margaret of a time, it too, could once fly.