The Cardinals

Saturday, March 18

2 pm
Blog Post 6

The Spring weather came and went all week. It was difficult keeping up with the changing weather. One day there could be a snow storm, the next could be warm with no signs of the snow from the previous day. It was unpredictable, inconsistent, and confusing. It was confusing for me, but also must have been confusing for the animals in my backyard as well.

Today, two Cardinals fly around my backyard. They are chirping and jumping from branch to branch. They’ve set themselves up in my tree, as if they were putting on a show. Their deep red feathers were bright against the gray skies. I wonder how they would have appeared, perched on those branches right after the snow that hit the day before. I wonder about where they came from, where they were just yesterday. I wonder why they decide to come to my yard when it begins to warm again.

Just yesterday, my yard was covered in a fresh layer of powdery snow. It came out of nowhere in the evening, falling heavy and fast. The tree branches had thick coatings of powder along their tops. The grass and mulch turned white, hidden except for the areas where my dog had run through. Everything blended together, a fresh white canvas. I can only imagine how these birds would have looked perched on the same branches just a day earlier. Their red and black feathers burning against their backdrop. I think of the way their feet would be curled around the branches, leaving an indent in the piles of snow. I can only imagine this because they were not there.

They are never there in the snow. My backyard is barren in the winter. Occasionally I will see an animal or two, but it is rare. These Cardinals’ timeliness amazes me. The appear as if magic every time the weather warms. This morning, they were there to greet me when I took my dog outside at 6 am. They pretend as if nothing has changed, as if they have been hanging out on this tree the whole time. But I know they weren’t. I know because I am here every day. I look at the tree every time I come home, every time I take my dog outside, even through the window in my bathroom as a brush my teeth. I need to know where they go. How close they are. How they get here so quickly.

I don’t know how they decided on the tree in my backyard. The old tenant here was a gardener and close with nature. I wonder if she used to hang feeders from trees here. Are they waiting for me the set out seeds for them? I never did before and I don’t know that I will now. They always attract the squirrels and they drive my dog crazy. I wonder how long they will stick around with me, if they will learn that someone new lives here. Will they stay for the summer again? I hope they do.

Do Touch

“Don’t touch that.” I always heard that sentence from my mother growing up. As a kid, I had to have my hands on everything. I couldn’t walk by clothing racks in a department store without running my hands along all the different shirts and sweaters hanging on the poles and folded on the tables. I would feel walls of every hallway. They were always a unique. There were the textured walls, tiles of the hospital my parents worked in, smoothed drywall painted with layers on layers of paint.

“You’re going to get sick putting your hands on everything.” My mother tried everything to keep my hands to myself, trying to instill the same fear of germs that my brothers had. She was probably right. I did get sick all the time. Even now. I understood what she was trying to say, I just didn’t care. I couldn’t stop.

“What are you doing?” my boyfriend said to me the day after we moved into our new apartment. I just wanted to touch the tree. It looked so different. It wasn’t like anything I would have come across before. “I just want to know what it feels like,” I said to him as he shook his head at me, walking inside with our dog.

This tree is different for me. Walking through a store, I can feel how soft a sweater is and move on. I don’t need to go back. Walls are always different, but none of them drove me crazy. I park next to my tree every day. Every day I run my fingers along its branches, feeling something new every time.

It all started with the top half, the rebirth from the stump in the ground. Its smooth yet bumpy skin running along the narrow branches. My fingers are interrupted frequently by the small twigs sticking out, holding leaves in the spring and summer. It feels bumpy to the touch, but those lumps are smooth. There’s no fear of sharp edges or splinters. It’s gentle, fragile, yet tough.

As I make my way down, my hand can rest on the edges of the previous stump. Inches of flat, worn wood make their way around the edges of the new branches, which were not large enough to take on the size of the tree that previously stood in their place. I touch the ridges of the rings that have blurred together from their exposure over however many years. It forms a clear line between the new and the old.

The old stump comes up to my knees. It is dark, much darker than the branches above. The bark is thick and jagged. Pieces of it crumble under too much pressure. The deep ridges lead my fingers into different patterns. A never-ending maze to follow.

There is something about the different textures that I can’t figure out. It continually makes me question its history. I wonder how long it has been there. How much time went into the wear and tear of its surface. Will its new branches be the same someday? When I leave someday, will the new tenant feel the power and history of any of this?