By Trina Allen
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The throaty song of
a wren startled me. Disoriented by spidery wisps of a dream, I turned over and
peeked at the clock with one eye. Three minutes after six. I turned over and
snuggled against Rich’s warmth, preparing for another half-hour of sleep. The
wren’s "chirpity, chirpity,
chirpity, chirp" heralded the dawn. A train
whistle blew, loud and long, and then faded into the distance. I shoved the
blankets off in irritation.
I watched Rich
sleeping peacefully in the semi-darkness. The wren’s throaty voice pierced the
air again. At the sound of its sad yet cheerful solo, sadness crept into my
heart. It had been months since the morning chorus of finches, wrens, and song
sparrows had awoken me before dawn. The chirps of cardinals and calls of the
nuthatches had dwindled through the summer until only this lone wren’s song
filled the morning air. I had just drifted to sleep when my alarm clock rang.
I made my way into the
breakfast nook with my first cup of coffee. Morning sun filled the room with
light. Love for Rich swelled in my heart at the sight of at the plants he so
carefully nurtured. The colorful leaves of the dieffenbachia filled the window
closest to me. A coleus was turned toward the glass, its leaves curling,
grasping for sun. A red cardinal landed on the bird feeder that Rich had
thoughtfully placed so near the windows, causing a ruckus. House finches took
flight in a whir of red throats and brown wings to made room for the bigger
cardinal. The finches found new spaces, picking seeds from the feeders. Why did
they no longer sing in the early dawn? I wondered. Why had the early choruses
stopped?
I decided to allow
myself a few minutes to savor the September morning and took my coffee outside
on the deck, surprised at the tang of goldenrod and autumn leaves in the air.
The cold was startling after the warm hazy summer mornings of weeks past. The
male cardinal puffed his red feathers and lifted his tail. Soon the blue jays
would rule, but for now the cardinal was lord of his domain, his black mask
prominent as he crunched seed. A nuthatch landed next to the cardinal and
perched upside down, his blue grey back turned skyward as he ate.
The goldfinches had
disappeared during the summer, nesting and raising their young. I felt my heart
skip a beat as I watched the goldfinches fight for places at the thistle
feeder. My heart beat faster. I felt pain in my chest, pain that I hadn’t felt
since I ran track in high school. A feeling of dread overcame me, so strong
that I sat hard in a deck chair, startling the male cardinal to flight. The
bird chirped, answered by the drab female that I recognize as his mate. The
pair landed on the fence near the feeder. The male cardinal lifted his tail,
spread his wings, and cheeped once more, aware of his status in his kingdom.
I breathed heavily
sitting in my chair. Remembering the hot, humid, lazy afternoons spent reading
and dozing in the shade of the popular and oak with Rich lounging in the chair
next to me, working crossword puzzles. Summer evenings just weeks past, when
the high-pitched notes of the male crickets — the female has more important
things to do than to make noise scraping her wings together — and the sting of
mosquitoes forced us into the air conditioning. Gone were the hummingbirds,
having already migrated to the Outer Banks or Mexico for the winter. Beads of
perspiration covered my brow. I wiped sweaty palms on my robe. The anxiety had
not passed.
Usually the shorter
days and the cooler nights fill me with nostalgia. Not today. Sighing, I
glanced at the woodlands beyond the yard, already shedding leaves and color on
their way to winter’s nakedness. Only the pines and cedars still wore the green
of summer. The maples already flashed red eaves. Yellow leaves clung to the
rebellious ash and poplar.
Drawn toward the
woods, my bare feet soon became damp and chilled as I walked across a blanket
of fallen leaves. The same rhythm that had caused the leaves to drop from the
trees had halted the bird’s song. Apprehension crawled up my back in wonder at
how quickly the pulse of autumn had come this year.
The back door
squeaked open, startling me from my rumination. I watched Rich walk down the
deck stairs, gripping a cup of coffee with both hands. Steam covered his face
in gauzy wisps as he sipped the coffee. When had the grey crept into his beard
and the tiny lines formed around his eyes? Love welled in my heart for the man
that still made my pulse race.
"Hello and good
morning," I yelled and waved.
Rich walked down the
stairs toward me. Together we gazed at the woods. I stood behind him, rested my
head on his shoulder, and put my arms around him. As I held him, sadness filled
me. Not sadness, hopelessness. Startled, I dropped my hands. I staggered and
fell on the soft blanket of dead leaves.
"Jennifer, what
is it?"
I saw fear in his
eyes. My heart pounded. Pain stabbed my chest and radiated down to my fingers.
I clutched my left arm. I looked at Rich in shock. He pushed three buttons on
his cell phone.
"Send an
ambulance. Hurry, I think my wife has just had a heart attack."
It felt surreal,
listening to him give the address to the 911 operator. Maybe I didn’t exercise
as much as I should, and I’d put on a few pounds, but I was healthy. I couldn’t
have had a heart attack.
A wren landed on a
branch of the large old oak. It cocked its head several times until it seemed
to be looking at me. Clear notes rose from its throat, "Chirpity, chirpity, chirpity, chirp." A squirrel ran down the old oak, its
tail twitching. It scrambled across the yard carrying an acorn, and dug a hole.
When had the acorns fallen?
The wind picked up.
A shower of leaves blew down from the tall trees in the backdrop of the morning
sun. Each leaf was a colorful butterfly, fluttering in a small tornado of
browns, yellows and reds. The sun turned Rich’s eyes into a sea-green pools
haloed by magical butterfly leaves all around him. It was the most beautiful
sight I’d ever seen. A stab of pain jolted me back to reality. Rich and I hadn’t had enough time. We had yet
to experience the pulse of this autumn and the birth of this winter, and the
next, and the next. Our love was but an infant, waiting to grow into old age.
As a painful contraction gripped my heart, I felt my hand slip from Rich’s.
"Rich, I don’t
want to leave you," I whispered, and then blackness overcame me.
##
"Chirpity, chirpity, chirpity, chip." I opened my eyes to darkness. "Chirpity, chirpity, chirpity, chip." I looked at the clock. Three minutes after
six. A train whistle blew, long and loud, and then faded into the distance. I
threw off the blankets as quickly as I could without disturbing Rich. I allowed
myself a moment to watch him sleeping so peacefully in the darkness and then
went into the bathroom. I shuffled through bottles, relieved when I found the
one I wanted. I took one aspirin.
End.
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