Last night I found this story I wrote in January. Since it is full of blue and green images, I felt it this blog was a good place to publish it.
Hummingbird
She
only saw it once, that blue flash, a vagrant hummingbird not usually found in
Colorado, where she lives 7000 feet in the Rocky Mountains, just over the
border from New Mexico; this horse ranch of her dreams, far away from what used
to be called home, deep into the world of water ownership and bears in the wild
and many, many opportunities to ride horses in the steep pine and aspen
forests.
It
was the flash of blue that day which reminded her it was time to refill the
hummingbird feeder. It hung off the edge of her solid ranch home, overlooking
the deck for the best viewing of the birds. And how they loved the feeder.
That
flash of blue. She would have to look up that bird. Meanwhile, she had things
on her mind. Things she felt she had to think about today, what should be a
normal July day in the life of a Colorado wife and mother and horse trainer.
She’s thinking of that summertime romance, the one where
they met at a party thrown by her sister to celebrate opening the pool for the
season. In Ohio, that meant late June. That same day she had spent hours
floating with friends on the pool rafts, drinking sangria loaded with limes and
oranges and ice, laughing about all the stupid things people laugh about on
weekends in the sun. “When Doves Cry” and “Glory Days” blasting from the stereo
speakers set up in the windows. What she remembers about that day is blue: the
sky was impossibly blue as they gazed into it in a luscious daze of heat and
sweat and chlorine and fruity wine. The blue of the pool water and floats. And
the blue of Ethan’s eyes, iridescent and happy-go-lucky.
The summertime romance began that day. A student of cultural
anthropology, Ethan could make unlimited fun out of everything 1984 – Reagan
running for re-election, huge shoulder pads in women’s clothing making them
look like linebackers, and the (as he called) ridiculous skinny yellow ties
worn by every young stud trying to be an executive. He was compact in stature –
slightly shorter than she – curly dark hair and a relaxed gait. Ethan had been
a swimmer in high school, and proceeded to scare the piss out of them all when
he insisted on doing his racing dives into the shallow pool. He was a
flute-player and a motorcycle rider a research assistant at Case Western
Reserve University. Which is how
he got to Ohio by way of Northwestern University in Illinois, his home state.
She’s thinking of the smell of the freshly cut grass, how it
clung to her feet, the red rose petals knocked from the flowers lying in the
garden that surrounded the above ground pool. She’s thinking of setting down
her grilled hamburger when it began to rain, and how instead of running into
the house, Ethan grabbed her hand and they ran down into the yard and danced in
the down pour. Together, hand in hand, running down the slope to the pine trees
that lined the backyard, she had never felt so ridiculously free, laughing as
the rain drenched them, slipping on the water the low lying areas, it splashing
up under her sundress, his hands gently on her wet shoulders, turning her
around and around and around, her dress clinging tightly to her breast and
thighs in the summer storm. And then the sun broke through and a rainbow. They
were the only ones to see it, and they cheered, before going back into the
house with the others, to dry off and figure out how to eat their soggy
burgers.
She’s thinking of how, despite the fun they had, he seemed
to mildly disappear until her sister’s Fourth of July party. There he was again, as if he never
left, cracking jokes about the upcoming Olympics and Reagan, of course. That
was the day he picked one of those American Beauty roses and left it on her
towel, so when she emerged from the pool it would be there waiting for her. He
did things like that. He was extra gentle that day, and she was certain good
days were coming for both of them. It had been a long time since Heather had a
summer romance. It was time.
When they had quiet time together, just the two of them
tucked into a corner of the yard, near the rose bushes. Hummingbirds were
stopping by – the only kind in Ohio, Ruby-Throated. Ethan was a wealth of
information about hummingbirds, and in particular, the Aztec culture and how
they believed hummingbirds and butterflies were warriors from the past
returning to earth. They had a god named Huitzilopochtili who was depicted as a
hummingbird. “Wouldn’t that be a
great name for a kid? Huitzilopochtli? We could call him Hutie. Or Pochie.”
“But what if she’s a girl?” Heather
asked with a grin?
“Well, then her name can bee
Huitzilopochtli Anne. Zilly for
short.”
He had an answer for everything,
she soon learned. The conversation
left fashion and politics and birds behind, and he told stories of middle
school craziness with his friends, food fights and bicycle adventures to forbidden
zones in the neighborhood, and how he should have won the Spelling Bee but got
totally caught up in seeing his crush in the audience and he totally blew
spelling the word “actualize.” “All I wanted to do was actualize a kiss on sexy
Katie Kirby.” He had her laughing, his eyes flashing that wicked blue that made
her want to actualize a kiss on him.
Which finally happened at the end of the night. Walking him
out to his motorcycle, she was ready – oh so ready. And he said, “Heather
Elise, it has been my pleasure to entertain you.” And then he kissed her. Got on his motorcycle, and road away.
At the end of the street he turned around, came back and kissed her one more
time, the motorcycle already sending out warm air to her bare legs, his lips
soft and gentle. Then gone again, not to return.
She’s thinking of a summertime romance that could have
lasted into fall, maybe even winter, but for a misstep on his part. Motorcycle.
Van. Broadside. Flying through the air. Landing on his helmetless head, blasted
out of his shoes, his leather jacket providing only minimum protection.
He would never be the same.
She’s thinking of how uneasy she was going to the hospital;
they had barely been dating to this point, but it felt weird not to at least
show up. His head was as big as a watermelon. He didn’t seem to know her. He sipped water from a straw. Gone was the broad smile full of white
teeth. In its place a grimace most of the time from various pains and gray
eyes, searching for memory. It was a long time before he knew who she was, a
long time before his brain allowed the connections back to his life, a long
time hoping his eyes would glimmer with the blue sky once again.
His mother discouraged her visits after a week or so. She
had come to town to be with him, but was anxious to get him back to Illinois.
She couldn’t deal with the agitation he exhibited after Heather visited. At
least that is what she said. His mother made no bones about it. Please
don’t come back.
When summertime romance had turned into uncomfortable
silence, Heather wanted no part of causing any more pain.
After the visit when she was booted out, she took her pain,
bought herself a vase of daisies, and sat home, thinking of his hands on her
shoulders in the pouring rain, slipping in a puddle, bringing her a sangria,
making her laugh, saying her name which sounded like sweet hummingbird nectar
when he said it: Heather. And sometimes her full name – Heather Elise. His laughter at the silly stories. His defense of a guy playing flute. His
jokes about the fact that she was two inches taller than he.
She’s thinking of the afternoon, the beach towel, the red
rose, the hummingbirds coming to the feeder, beating their engine wings,
sipping the sugary nectar, unafraid of the people on the patio. The feeder was
there, and the peace roses in delicate yellow and pink and peach, and the
American Beauties, of course, velvety petals gracing the ground and soft sighs
of movement in the breeze. A flash. Like a hummingbird. Summertime romance
ends.
She’s thinking of a summertime romance, when at the end of
the day, after the pool and cooling down and cooking on the grill and pulling
out some coffee to sober up, he would paint amazing stories of a paradise life
they would have together. His words. Paradise life. And how in a short time he
was sure. It would be a church wedding with bells ringing far and wide, and
then a honeymoon, maybe even on the motorcycle, to the east coast or maybe even
the west coast, depending on time, to visit some beaches and relax in the sun.
And then a house with a yard they can run into when the rain fell and roses
they could grow. Paradise in the backyard, and maybe even buy a boat to take
out on Lake Erie, and eventually some children – a boy and girl would do. And
she swooned – yes, she swooned, when she thought of blue-eyed children and
roses on the table and paradise in the backyard and days of his jokes and
sarcasm and love. And his hands on her shoulders, waiting for the right moment
to move a little closer.
Heather knows spring has arrived, and it is time to hang the
hummingbird feeder. She has seen the buds coming out on the roses. She has a
spa, but not a pool, and a grill and two children – both girls. Both with brown
eyes like she and her husband. When summer time comes, she will invite friends
over to enjoy her homemade sangria and shrimp kebobs on the grill. The girls
would play in the yard. If it rains she will encourage them to run out with her
and get wet, their sundresses clinging to their tanned bodies, blonde hair in a
tangle. She would hear the echoes of the stories her summertime romance told
her, back when he could speak well and she was part of his life.
She steps out onto the patio and finds the spot for the
feeder. Heather knows the hummingbirds will take a while to
arrive. She knows about waiting. She knows about times when the sweet nectar
isn’t enough to pull them forward. His stories and paradise he painted for her
has moved her to the place she stands today. There is no going back. Hummingbirds
will come, green flashes and never standing still. So much like her life. The
life left behind with the summertime romance.
