01 Jun Letting Things Hurt
For the past several weeks, a family of quail have been living in a bush in our front yard. The family is made up of parents and seven tiny baby birds the size of ping pong balls. Quail are beautiful creatures and look like they are wearing fancy hats, thanks to a black plume sticking up from the top of their heads. But what I love about them even more is that they share the cultural pleasures of families, with dedicated parents who dutifully watch over their young.
Like clockwork, as I turn into the driveway after picking the girls up from school, the family of quail are walking around the grass, learning to find food and exploring while staying close to their parents. When they hear the noise of our car, we watch with delight as they scurry in a little group toward the bush. One parent leads, the seven babies cluster in the middle, and the other parent goes behind to make sure they all get back to the bush safe and sound.
Each day the family takes this seemingly inconsequential trip through the expanse of our front yard.
There are the things the quail parents seem to predict and control with ease— the cottontail rabbit that likes to nibble on the green grass and lie in the sun, the neighbor’s cat who peers over with a swishing tail and yellow eyes, the lawnmower that roars, the mailman opening the mailbox, or our car pulling into the driveway.
But there are other things. Things that the safest parenting can’t control. Such as the hawk, who must have swept down while we were driving home from school. As we turned into the driveway, we saw only a pile of downy feathers softly blowing in the grass.
A few days have gone by. I look outside my office window to the spot of grass where the family of birds used to wander. I watch as only two birds emerge from the bush. The parents. They stand on the grass near the spot where a few white feathers remain, a horrific reminder of the last time they saw their babies alive.
And, after nearly a week of holding it in, I cry.