Ecstatic whooping, chirping, buzzing… dancing in the sky like drunken sailors after a night of carousing, drunk on nectar, zipping to the sun, diving back to hover midair before dashing full-speed towards a blossoming tree, a delicate stop to plunge into a flower, drink some more…
I’m at my sister’s house in Austin watching in wonder as a charm of hummingbirds whip around the pool, a bouquet of jeweled bodies and invisible wings.
It feels poetic that one of the last things my Dad and I did together was go to the little hardware store down the street to buy a hummingbird feeder. He insisted on buying me one that was bright red and shaped like a genie’s bottle, and when we got home, we held it up under different trees, trying to decide on the best place to hang it, a place the hummingbirds would adore.
I understand now he wanted to create an enchantment magnet, an invitation to shimmering beauty to arrive at my doorstep every day.
I always tell my kids that magic is in motion, you have to leave the house to find it, it doesn’t come knocking on your door.
But with a hummingbird feeder, the magic comes to you.
My Dad was well aware of the miracles all around us every day, and he absolutely loved the little things, like marveling at the color of a blue jay, or a cardinal’s feathers, especially in the snow. Some of my kid’s best memories of him are laying on the trampoline with binoculars in his backyard to look for the bats that came out at sunset. He also loved fixing things, even in his last days, and when he came to live with me, he was always looking for things to fix, and if the fix required a trip to the local hardware store, even better. If I said I needed batteries, his eyes lit up, and off we’d go. The workers would talk with him, help him find the right light bulb, a flashlight, a loop of twine.
Have a box that needs cutting? Don’t use scissors, let’s go get a box cutter!
“Marci, you know what you need? Rope. Let’s go to the hardware store.”
We literally came home from one trip with a small brown bag holding only a box cutter and a small piece of pristine white rope.
I actually didn’t need any rope, but it turned out he wanted it. We came home from the store and he sat down by the front door, called Henry over, and started showing him how to tie different knots with the rope, memories from his navy days. A clove hitch, a bowline, a square knot…
“The rabbit goes around the tree and through the hole…”
I could hear his deep booming voice, “A knot tied well will last forever, withstand any amount of battering from any storm. You tie this kind of knot if you need to hold things tight, so nothing drifts away in the water. In some cases, knots need to be a little looser, allowing things to drift away a little bit, but not too far.”
He gave the rope to Henry to try, and as I watched his big weathered hands, tan and rough like the bark of a tree, wrapping around Henry’s small hands, gently showing him each step, I wished I could tie both of them to me somehow so they’d never drift away.
Back in Austin, I told my sisters about the birdfeeder and the rope that day, and Maria said she wished Dad was here now.
Me too.
Me too.
He could fix anything, from a flat tire to a shattered window to a broken marriage, and now we have to fix things the best we can on our own.
Although it usually feels like we are floundering without him, he actually gave us exactly the right tools to fix anything on our own.
Because really, if we know how to tie the right knot and make nectar so sweet that magic flutters through the air around us at the speed of light, what else do we really need? It seems anything is possible.
Just then, a hummingbird dive bombed my sisters, then me, zipping right in front of us, shimmering like a fluttering jewel. It stopped to hang in mid-air, looking me in the eye before zipping away in wild delight.
