by Yuriana Kim
Bird droppings on my bistro table out on my rarely used porch. A bird nest on the eaves directly above. How many months or years has it been up there? I set my mug of breakfast tea on the table and climb on one of the iron chairs to remove the nest. There are brown nestlings inside, barely moving, but alive. I quickly place the nest back in its precarious spot, but now it doesn’t sit steady on the narrow shelf; a slight wind could knock it down. Shit, shit, I mutter, as my eyes fall on Buddha holding a bowl in his hands—a perfect size to cradle a bird nest. The stone statue sits nestled in a niche, overlooking my porch; a gift left behind by previous tenants. I place the fate of the baby birds in Buddha’s lap.
I moved to this house in the mountains before the pandemic, just after my divorce, two years after our daughter Chloe’s death. A perfect place to cocoon myself temporarily, but with each passing year, becomes more permanent. Snakes and squirrels, raccoons, owls, cats, bobcats and coyotes live in this habitat, though my property is somewhat protected from wildlife by a wooden fence. Buddha, please guard these nestlings. And please guide their mother to find their nest’s new location.
I leave my front door ajar with a clear view of the nest as I keep watch for the winged mother, hour after hour. Patience has been my longtime companion, though I’m beginning to notice its sly absence when expecting a rare visit from an old friend, a package delivery, or the tea kettle to boil. Later in the afternoon after two pots of tea, a pretty brown bird with red feather markings on its head and breast finally discover the nest in Buddha’s hands after repeatedly searching for it along the eaves. It’s a male house finch. The nestlings chirp ravenously and open their beaks wide to receive the regurgitated bits from their papa. I used to enjoy watching my ex-husband feed our baby girl, pretending to be a flying insect or a helicopter as he maneuvered the whirling spoon to her eager mouth. I used to enjoy being a family, when Chloe was still alive. I used to enjoy many things.
I don’t see the mama bird until the following day. She’s all-brown and compact on her perch on top Buddha’s head of tight curls, singing to her brood of five who chirp in melodic cacophony. A loving couple, like Pete and I once were, the parents take turns feeding their little ones’ incessant hunger throughout the day. Day after day.
My internet is not working again. The baby birds grow bigger and louder, entertaining me in place of Netflix. As I await maintenance work on the electric grids, and also on the potholed rural roads and my faulty septic tank, fecal sacs accumulate along and over the rim of the bird nest. Buddha, too, is shat on, while he continues to sit in equanimity bearing a subtle smile. I’m feeling a rare surge of restlessness to get out of the house, maybe take a trip, as the nestlings become fledglings and flutter their wings in the cramped nest, jostling for space.
Then five become three overnight. Did a predator snatch two of them while I slept securely in my bed? When night falls again I don’t sleep at all, thinking of my baby girl, who was only seven months-old when sleep stole her from me. She would be seven years-old now.
The next morning, one week after I first discovered the nest, I happen to witness, with tears of relief and pride, the inaugural flights of the next two siblings. Then only one remains.
I don’t want it to leave, but it must. The last and tiniest of the brood struggles to find its footing on the rim of the nest while testing out its fledgling wings. It seems to give up, as I look on. Then the baby brown finch hops onto Buddha’s solid lap. After a brief moment of the jitters while I watch in hope and dread, it, too, flies away.
A squirrel hops onto my porch with an acorn in its mouth and stares at me with expectant eyes like it’s daring me to do something. Anything.
Yuriana Kim’s fiction appears in Lemonwood Quarterly, Frank, Flash Fiction Magazine, and was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She studied English Literature and Creative Writing at UCLA and has an MA in Spiritual Psychology. Born in South Korea and raised in Hawaii, she lives in the Los Angeles area.
Emerge Literary Journal 