Birds Nests, Late Winter

Turning 53

“What happens
to the leaves after
they turn red and golden and fall
away? What happens
to the singing birds
when they can’t sing
any longer? What happens
to their quick wings?”
— Mary Oliver, Roses, Late Summer

This morning I stood out on the deck and it had started to drizzle. A small sign that spring is on its way despite Punxsutawney Phil saying at least 6 more weeks of winter. That predicting groundhog lives in Gobbler’s Knob, only an hour and a half from where I live.

I was in a t shirt and jeans. Too cold for a t shirt but not cold enough to bundle up. I stayed there a long time letting the wet air touch my skin and staring at the brown leafless trees. Lately it takes effort to see beauty. Not because it isn’t there but because my mind is full of tasks and timers and who needs help next. I have to remind myself the world is still a spectacular place even while the house keeps narrowing into management.

One thing about the leaves dropping is the big reveal. All winter the trees stand open. Nests everywhere. From where I’m standing I’d need a dozen hands to count them. All those hidden homes sitting right in plain sight once the cover is gone.

There is one that towers above the others at the very top of the tree by the creek. Huge. Made of sticks and twigs and leaves. Almost certainly a red tail hawk nest.

They look graceful in the air but what they actually do is violent. The hawk circles or perches and watches the ground for movement. Then it drops quiet as the air itself. Controlled. At the last second the legs come forward and the impact is feet first. Talons hook and close. Small animals die instantly. Bigger ones don’t. The bird bites the skull or neck and tears meat with its beak.

My mom slept for a couple hours this afternoon. She woke up at 5 and asked what my dad and I were doing up. It was still daylight outside. She had no idea what time it was or what day it was. That’s been happening a lot.

Recently a nurse asked her what year it was.

19… um… 1996. No… 2048?

Do you know what month it is?

November?

I sit with her and help her try to find the words. Her speech therapist gave me some tools. Slow down. Offer choices. Yes or no questions. Beat around the bush. But more and more whatever she was about to say disappears mid sentence and we both sit in that empty space.

She worries I am frustrated with her. I keep telling her I am not. I am here. Take your time.

There are parts of my life I do not write publicly while my parents are alive. I am writing them down but they are not for the internet. There is a privacy and dignity she deserves. Still those things shape my days as much as meds and laundry and appointments. They ask things of me I did not know a person could be asked.

This morning I went to the store for batteries for the swiffer mop. I caught my reflection in the window and realized I had gotten out of bed, blasted through the chores, and driven into town without looking in the mirror. I joked about it to the cashier and she said you can just tell people it’s windy out.

We laughed but it also felt oddly kind. Like she was giving me a place to exist in this ordinary world when I don’t feel like I belong anywhere. Back home I cleaned the floors. They were filthy. Four swiffer pads just for the first scrub.

Then the electric bill came. $300 for my small apartment I barely live in these days. My first reaction was shock followed quickly by panic. Then the work of acceptance because panic does not pay the bills. The thermostat sits at 60 and still the cold gets expensive. I have not slept in my bedroom in over a month. I sleep downstairs in what used to be my mom’s bedroom before we set up the hospital bed in the living room because going up and down the icy stairs 2 or 3 times a night when it’s -2º isn’t recommended.

I turn 53 at the end of the month. My birthday has never felt important but this year it feels like a marker. Not celebration exactly but something like proof of existence.

---

All are welcome here, but if you’re in a place to offer support, a paid subscription ($5/month or $50/year) is deeply appreciated. It’s not required, but it helps me keep showing up, to write, to share, to keep this thread of connection alive.

Out here in the countryside, caring for my folks is deeply meaningful, but often lonely. Writing about my experience and sharing it with you helps me stay grounded, inspired, and not quite so alone. Think of a paid subscription as a tip jar for the kind of storytelling that makes space for truth, tenderness, and the beautiful mess of being human.