June

Robins and raspberries.

I planted a Honeycrisp for my grandpa. Those were his favorite. It hasn’t given much fruit over the years, but the spring after he died, a robins nest weaved its way under the leaves.

One brilliant blue ended up a handful of yards away, shattered. I’m partly to blame because the feeder I hung to make parenthood easier, really just brought predators closer.

Three hatched and over the next two weeks I witnessed their nakedness change and their chirps sharpened.

While I washed bottles for my own, I saw the parents out the window bring meal, after meal, after meal. Partnering to gather over 150 meals a day. They’d rest for a moment on the fence, then fly off to catch yet another bug.

I learned that robins don’t learn to fly directly from the nest. That they fledge instead. In other words, they take a leap of faith, then hop around until they figure it out, sticking close by, hiding in bushes, all while the parents still bring them more and more. 

The mother often leaves partway through fledging to recover before nesting again, but the dad keeps showing up until their babies are ready to fly. 

One morning, I was picking raspberries when I felt a stare. One of the babies claimed the patch as their own and looked at me as if  saying, “I know you.” I went over to the nest, and there was still one more tucked inside. The final, lifeless by the roses.

I saw their pale mother land on the fence and call. “Where are you? I’m here for you.” Two chirps in opposite directions replied. Since, the parents have divided their efforts.

I wonder when she’ll leave, ready for the next nest. Maybe she’ll linger a bit longer for the one who didn’t make it. Or maybe there’s no room for grief in the gathering. Maybe they just keep flying, hoping that the two remaining will know flights, folding twigs, and seasons of calling out to their own, “I’m here for you.”