“Jodi, come here,” my friend/host calls to me through the window. He’s outside doing whatever people do outside.
I struggle up out of the lounge chair where I’ve been, yes, lounging, trying to ignore the cold I’ve picked up while here on Prince Edward Island (mystery location!), and dash outside. In his hand is this:
“Oh my god! What is that?” I ask, all city bumpkin-like. (Earlier on my trip I had expressed the same level of wonder at a bluejay and a hummingbird.)
“It’s a chickadee,” he says.
“I have to get my camera!” I say. “Can I? Will he still be here?”
“Where’s he going to go?” my friend says.
I bolt upstairs, collect my camera, and take a few shots of the sweetest, tiniest, softest little bird I’ve ever seen in my life.
Turns out one of my friend’s cats was playing with this little guy under the car, and the nest’s location wasn’t apparent.
“He’s not going to make it,” my friend says. “How can he? I can’t find his nest.”
Say no more, my friend. Really. Literally. Say no more. I don’t want to hear this. I know this is the way of the world, nature’s whatever blahblahblah, but I still don’t want to hear this. I want to hear that the mother bird will be back in five minutes, she’s just gone to get a worm or two.
“Do you want to hold him in your hand?” my friend asks, as I reach out and stroke the little guy’s head with the tip of my finger.
“No,” I say. “If I do, I’ll cry. I can’t.”
But it’s too late. I try to disguise my tears behind my sniffles, but I don’t think I’m fooling anyone.