Hummingbird Seed

October 6th, 2023

A fogged morning of red pom pom trees and sweet earthy rainfall. Mosquitos and deer congregate in the long grass at the foot of the yard, the woods’ edge. My mother’s summer flower pot contents are starting to shrivel. Recoil, calcify, perish into the prettiest brown decaying purple. Honeysuckle hummingbird seed. I think to myself, Where do the hummingbirds go during the winter? Surely their hollow boned snare-drum chest can only play for a morning’s worth of miles. While the geese and robbins may be in Georgia by now, the hummingbirds are probably over on Blue Farm Lane.  Minutes away, miles to go. 

Sitting at home, I think of home. What a gray concept. At the surface murky, clouded by a film of mixed up memory and churned soil of a locational body-count. If you were to take a dive or a shallow step to wade, you would pierce time’s mossy muddle. I assure you the clayed water-floor would be visible. Roots naked and abundant, ready for the soft touch of your sole. 

I think of home, and I think of my mom. Her perfume and how it changes with the seasons. Her martinis and meatballs. She puts fresh linens on the bed and flowers in the vase everytime I return – be it for an evening or an ever. When I was a young girl, she met me with the same excitement every morning. Put me in purple corduroy overalls and pigtails. The rest of the day was our’s. 

Where are you from?

My mom lives in Pittsburgh, so that’s home right now.

The days she made to be minutes and seconds to be eternities. Memories and Motherhood. I remember every detail of her face, every silver and gold choice to be made.

I am her hummingbird. Tiny with a sweet-tooth. A need to dart between honeysuckle home and New York City. No matter where I go, I’m always here. Whirring around her head, hovering around the idea of home.  I could never leave. The seconds I suck are sugar, and no matter how far I go I’ll live as if I’m just down the street.