Hummingbird

 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.