Tucked into the corner of our porch is a nest. An industrious robin wove it tightly with twigs, grass, and string. Funny, she left a long strand of straw dangling, fluttering like a wind sock. I’m surprised, as tidy as she is, that the strand wasn’t tucked back into the intertwined loops. We’ve watched her for weeks. She flies in and out, swooping under the eaves of the porch, scolding us if we stay on her end of the porch too long or if we get too noisy.
Three little grandsons quite often spend Mondays here at Noni’s house. And the weather forced us to watch the unfolding drama through the window behind the couch for the last two weeks. The boys, barely a whisper of stair steps between them, stand and press together to watch her. All three call to me, letting me know her comings and goings.
“Look, Noni. Look!”
I look; however, it is the delight and joy in their faces that stun me. I take countless photographs trying to capture what only the heart can. I whisper prayers under my breath that their awe will always be this tangible, that their joy will always be this contagious.
For the longest time, we didn’t know how many eggs she kept warm under her feathered brick-red belly, but then one day, I watched her fly in with worms dangling from her beak. Three bald heads stretched upward to meet hers, and all scrambled to receive the sustenance she and her mate carried to them. The three little boys crowed with curiosity and awe, bouncing and climbing the couch cushions for a higher perch to see the whole cozy affair even closer. I think she recognizes them now.
When she first made the nest, I considered removing it before she laid her eggs. The wheat-colored bed is a little unsightly; the mud daubed around to adhere it to the edge of the porch column. We didn’t disturb it; I admired her artistry and respected her motherly provision.
The sweet robin reminds me of my girls who have nests full and overflowing right now—their lives an endless flight of feeding, covering, and warming.
Their nests have tendrils fluttering in the wind that they think they need to tuck up and away, and I just want to remind them that there will be plenty of time for all the tidying-up later—when little wings pump the air, and they fly.
I remember my nest days. My beautiful and strong birds have grown and flown.
My nest is empty now. But my heart is not.
No, it’s not, and in reality, it’s exponentially multiplied.
