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Mildred was beautiful. Like a painting abandoned, all whites and marigold except for her bright pool-blue eyes. In the right light, her limbs were iridescent like the hummingbirds that gathered in their backyard, what he imagined an angel would look like. Mother and son were devoted to the birds; a dozen feeders filled with nectar, strung along taut wires. Two cups of sugar for every eight cups of boiling water. The yard landscaped with lemon and coral honeysuckle, trumpet flowers, salvias, and columbines. According to Mildred, the whirring, ruby-throated hummingbirds carried fairies on their backs. They arrived in vibrating droves each July. George and Mildred built fairy houses out of sticks and twine with tiny twig chairs and beds. They decorated the roofs with pink and red starflowers and dandelions. Mildred spoke of magical mountains raining emeralds and butterflies and little girls romping with wild beasts in piney forests and lush jungles. She spoke of fortunetellers and strong men, of sword swallowers and knife throwers—the characters from her books. Fantastic stories inhabited George’s day-to-day world, and he believed every word.
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When George was twelve, one of the hummingbirds built her ping-pong ball size nest from spider silk on the kitchen windowsill. They watched the babies crack from their shells: blind and bald, dime Art by sized. The mother fed the hatchlings, Noah Snyder her pointed beak thrusting deep inside their tissue paper throats. George was afraid the mother might hurt them, but Mildred explained, “She knows what she’s doing. It’s instinctual.” His mother he understood to be the same. By early August, the babies were plumper than their mother. They flew at her side as she led them flower to flower and feeder to feeder.
SHIMMER
Then, one day, the babies left the crowded nest, each on their own. The mother preened, her wings flickering. She hummed and waited. George and Mildred waited, expecting the babies’ return. The leaves turned gold and red, dropping to the grass. The mother hummingbird flew away. The spider silk wafted in the breeze. Mildred removed the nest, cleaning the window. A north wind whipped through the kitchen, lifting her hair off her neck. Mildred sucked in her lip, tears pooling in her blue eyes, and said, “It’s over.” George hugged her and said what she’d taught him years earlier. “They’ll come back. They’ll remember.” — Michele Young-Stone Ed. Note: Excerpted from Michele Young-Stone’s fourth novel, Shimmer.
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