What Are You Saying?

Recently I went for a walk around the maze of residential roads that fan from my parents’ home in New Jersey. I was staying with them for a couple weeks to join my siblings in support of our mom through our dad’s dying process.

The local streets around their house are the very ones I jogged along as a teenager. Usually when I go there to visit I take my walks elsewhere, but that day I decided to take a tour of the adjacent happenings, get a feel for the neighborhood these days. I pulled on my coat and quietly pulled the door shut behind me. My dad had been dozing ever more by that point, so we were all adult mice by day, tiptoeing, but by evening the house would erupt in animation with folks streaming in after work to visit.

The outside was such a contrast to the darker, silent inside. You could hear the birds. You could see the bright, gray-blue expanse of sky. You could feel the wide breeze blowing down the channel of space above the street. It was a surprising reminder that the natural world was still doing its regular thing regardless of the unfamiliar sadness behind my parents’ front door, and even the great distress in Ukraine that we were all monitoring regularly.

I set out along the sidewalk, taking in all the front door décor along the way, then rounded the corner to where a nearby playground was sitting. It’s still there, I thought, the same jungle gym that I sat atop as a teen when I first tried my hand at smoking a cigarette. I said a heartfelt thanks to that jungle gym for being my rock when I nearly vomited that first inhale of tobacco. Such a nauseating response resulted in me never putting my lips to a cigarette again. Jungle gym, if you had anything to do with that, thank you.

I kept walking and arrived at a T in the road. I turned right to make my way around the big circle that gradually pitches upward to its apex, then gradually pitches downward back to its start. It was there that I came upon two trees situated across the street from each other, filled with a noisy clatter of grackles. How could the locals possibly think straight with this racket? These creatures were a public nuisance, so I went straight over and shook my finger at them.

“You guys are too loud!”

They kept squawking, paying no mind to me.

“What are you going on about?!”

The grackles were screeching, entirely unintelligible, not one of them answering my question until I could just barely make out one small voice above the din, “It’s warm today!” And this was so. It was a lovely day amongst the recent cold, late-Winter days. Spring was surely coming.

“That it is!” I called up to them. I thought maybe I had an audience for my questions now, so I probed further. “What do you guys think of this Ukraine situation? Do you birds even know what’s going on?” But this was asking too much. They went back to ignoring me, conducting their off-key brouhaha, so I covered my ears and started on my way.

Soon I came to a turn-off to the golf course. It’s a sidewalk path that cuts through a line of houses and it leads to the spot where I kissed a boy back in the day. Is it a bad thing that I now can’t remember who that young fellow was? Does it mean the kissing wasn’t too memorable? I think it means there are just far too many memories to choose from anymore.

I turned down the path and went over to the course. I walked around the pond sitting right at the end of the path. This is the pond my brother dragged along the bottom of to scoop up lost golf balls. He then set up a small used golf ball shop on top of his red metal wagon and made a decent profit for a kid in elementary school. He ended up having a successful career in his life (not golf ball related), and I’m sure it all started at that water’s edge.

I headed back to the loop and continued my way around it. Up at the top of the circle I strolled around the edge of a cul-de-sac and encountered a tree of robins. This group was yakking loud too, but in a more singsong style, which was much more appealing to the ear. At first, I thought it best to leave these folks be, but then I couldn’t help myself. Sometimes I stick my nose in too many places, and the animals is one.

“Hey, do any of you know my dad?” I asked.

I squinted up at the top of the tree. I don’t think they knew I was down there.

“HEY! Do you guys know my DAD?!” They just kept singing.

“He was really into watching you guys!” They just sat up there; tweeted and tweeted like scads of old biddies at tea.

“Do you know about Ukraine??”

Nothing. I took a swig of water from my small pocket flask, which is a repurposed empty vitamin bottle. I started to head out when one tiny bird voice wafted down, “We know your dad. Tell him we said hi, but what’s a Ukraine?”

I didn’t want to tell them my dad was just about to join a world where birds co-mingle with humans and the sun always sets on joy, so I waved and whispered to myself that a Ukraine was a hopeful people.

Walking down the backside of the loop I passed by two young teens playing one-on-one in front of a basketball net. The one boy was practically bear-hugging the other guy from behind who was trying to make a shot. I put my hands into a T and called over, “Foul!” The guy with the ball said, “See? Even she knows it’s a foul.” I was proud of myself that I might know one example of a basketball scenario, but if I’m being fair, it looked more like an upright wrestling match than a dribble-and-shoot. I figure there’s no wrestling in basketball. Am I right?

I peeked at these two as I moved past them. It was late afternoon, so this must have been a wind down activity after school. They were in t-shirts, with their jackets strewn haphazardly on the curb. Their hair was longish in the front and shook like fringe as they tussled with each other. I thought about how these curbside ballgames were partly forming who they’d become for their whole lives, even if just a bit. That’s what we do for each other, early on and even much later — help each other grow into who we are, even my dad up to the end. He was becoming a man who could accept death as his wife and kids assured him everything would be okay. And we weren’t fibbing. I kept thinking how ideal he was having it, with so many folks in support. I wondered how it will be one day to become that person who accepts, too.

I pushed on, continuing to round out the bottom of the circle and head home. I came upon those grackles again, same place, same birds, same cacophony. I think they noted who was approaching: the old cranky lady. I accepted that moniker but aimed to improve upon it.

“Hellooo up there!” I flapped my hand back and forth with an overly eager smile. Maybe I was dopey waving to a tree of birds who were purposely ignoring me. I was okay with that.

But then one by one, they started to leave the top of the tree and hop down to the lower branches. My face got a little serious. What’s this? The squawking died down and a handful of grackles turned toward me. They started to chirp, then sing. (I guess that’s what it was?) I just stood there and watched. One of them started to tweet in earnest at me. I knew he was saying something.

“What are you saying?” I asked him, but he kept making his noises that I couldn’t understand. I felt badly about that.

This was how it was with my father. Towards the end you couldn’t make heads or tails out of the sounds coming from his mouth. We’d just keep reiterating that everything was okay and that we were there for him. During his life there were plenty of times my dad and I didn’t quite understand the words that came from each other’s mouths. But we kept trying because I’m sure we both really wanted to.

“I’m listening, even if I can’t understand,” I said to that grackle. The bird stopped talking and turned his head to look at me with one eye.

“Did you know my dad?” I asked. “He would sit over there.” I pointed towards my parents’ house. “On the back patio and watch you with his binoculars.” I could tell this dark, iridescent bird knew what I was saying. I swept my hand in front of me in a horizontal flourish and raised my voice. “He knew all of you! He often called you his feisty visitors, but he’s going away now. You won’t find him on the patio anymore. I thought you should know.”

At first there was a long pause, and then the birds began to lift off in shifts and take flight. They circled above me once and then flew away. The last one to leave was that grackle. I heard him say, “We thought he was feisty, too.”

Then a tear cracked out of me, and it just kept coming. Even the birds knew my dad and how fervid. Even in his last days he was preoccupied with the news of Ukraine, as if he could do anything about it, but it made perfect sense. I thought about how difficult it would be to leave the world knowing it was in tumult. Some of his last ounces of energy he used to invest in discussing the terrible situation. Perhaps it’s because he was usually so committed to the things he focused on. Perhaps it’s because he wanted to be able to yet make a difference at his last hours. Eventually both he and his words faded away, and we could no longer understand what he was saying. But we could see his strength and insistence. This was one of his very last messages to the world.

Friends near and far, I hope you find the strength you need, too.

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