Hanging, Caitlin McBride

HANGING

Caitlin McBride

Remember that flower basket we put up each spring, hanging up delicately only by a thin hook and string off the corner of the front porch?

You stood so tall above me, effortlessly reaching up and bringing down the little bird’s nest to my eye level.

I saw that they couldn’t open their eyes those ugly, featherless babies, just hatched, their mouths shutting and un-shutting in rhythm, blindly begging for food.

They were mistaking us for their own Mama So I probably got defensive, because you are my Mama and not theirs.

You hung them back up and we went inside. Maybe you made me a ketchup sandwich and I un-shut and shut my mouth, devouring the preferred cuisine of my childhood.

I haven’t had a ketchup sandwich in forever, because they are disgusting. And because only you know the recipe.

Still, you come to town to see me anyway. You drive me to that fancy grocery store, buy me pot stickers, tomatoes and arugula, frozen pizza, so much food that the cart overflows.

The night before you leave, we sit quietly in your hotel room. You tell me to try yoga and volunteering and journaling, to sit tight until the weather gets right. I can see you back home on that first warm, sunny day, stepping through the yellow door onto the front porch, the new plant in your hands.

You’ll hang the flowers up again so delicately, in the same spot I first saw the nest and the inevitably needy babies.

You’ll go back inside, make coffee and toast, go to work, go to yoga, and soon enough, another round of baby birds will sit helplessly and mistake everyone for their Mama.