Birdseed

["We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand." - Cecil Day-Lewis]

How do you explain death to a kid? I mean, it’s one thing to swat a fly or squash a spider, and it’s completely another to explain why the goldfish stopped swimming around and now just bobs at the top of the bowl. Why did kitty fall asleep, and when will she wake up? When will grandma get back from heaven?

But to explain death, as in, you’re going to die. You have less than three months. The doctor’s don’t know how to fix it. This is it. You’ll find out where all those flies and spiders and fish and kitties and grandmas went.

But how do you explain that to somebody who doesn’t even understand life? Eating, sleeping, playing, Ninja Turtles. How do you go from that to hospital beds and drip bags and monitors and doctors and nurses and needles and charts?

My wife and I talked, off hand, before any of this was a reality. What would we do if he was diagnosed with some terminal illness? What would we give him? Unanimously: Anything he wanted.

We’d rent out all of Walt Disney World for the day, or let him eat his weight in ice cream, or hang out with Batman and Spider-Man as they fought crime downtown. Whatever.

“What do you want?” I asked him. “Anything.”

“Anything?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He thought about this for a moment. He thought really hard. If he were any less perfect, he would have probably exploited it: all the video game consoles, tons of games, hours of TV, a PG-13 movie. But our little angel looked up at me with his mother’s eyes and said: “Birdseed.”

“Birdseed?” I asked. “Do you want a pet bird?”

He shook his head. “No. I want wild birdseed.”

“Why?”

“To grow some wild birds.”

“Oh,” I said. “Of course. Let me go tell mom.”

She was in the kitchen. To say she was doing the dishes would be neglecting the fact that the water was now cold and the bubbles mostly gone. She was crying and staring quietly into the water.

“Damn you,” she said, almost a whisper. She was praying.

“He told me what he wants,” I said. She looked up at me.

“What?” I wasn’t sure if she was asking me to repeat myself or to tell her what our son wanted.

“Birdseed,” I said. “He wants birdseed.”

“Does he want a pet bird?” she asked, looking up at me.

I shook my head. “No. He wants to grow them.”

She took a short breath. “Did you tell him that’s not how it works?”

“No,” I said. “I was wondering if we should just do it? You know, plant birdseed and let them grow.”

She sighed. “Do we want to disappoint him now or later?”

“Never,” I said.

She paused, took a few breaths while her lower lip trembled. “Let’s do it.”

###

I went to the natural pet supply store, as I didn’t want to get some weird irradiated seeds that wouldn’t grow. I told the clerk that I wanted wild birdseed. Nothing else. He gave me a burlap bag with several birds stenciled on the side: robins, cardinals, bluejays, and some others.

“Will they grow?” I asked him.

He smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Unless you’re trying to grow birds.” He chuckled.

I paid for the seeds before carrying the sack to the trunk of my car. I drove home in silence.

###

His eyes grew big when he saw the bag. “Perfect!” he said, and then had to catch his breath.

He pointed at all the birds on the bag and asked me what they were called. “Cardinal,” for the red one. “Bluejay,” for the blue one. “Robin,” for the one with the red stomach. “Starling,” I guessed for the black one with the white spots on its back. He repeated them to himself, trying to commit their names to memory.

We opened the bag and he sifted through the seeds. There were some sunflower seeds, round little ball seeds, something that looked like white sunflower seeds, and some corn kernels.

He held each one up and asked which bird it would grow into. “I think that one’s a cardinal,” I said to the white seed. “And that one’s a bluejay,” to the sunflower seed. “And that one’s a robin,” to the round seed. “And I think that’s the starling,” I said to the corn kernel.

He laughed. “It looks like corn,” he said. He dug around in the bag some more and found a strange seed. It was colorful and star-shaped. His eyes grew wide with concern.

“We can’t plant this one outside,” he said, tugging on my shirt sleeve.

“Why not?” I asked. I leaned in to look at the seed. 

“This is a tropical bird seed,” he said. “It’s too cold for them up here.”

I looked at the seed some more. “We could plant it inside. It’s not too cold inside, is it?”

He thought about this some more. Finally, he shook his head. “No. It’s nice in here. But how can we plant it?”

“I could get a flower pot and some soil. We could grow it here, in your room, right next to your bed.” I pointed at the small end table next to his large, white railed bed, past all the cables and cords and tubes. “Right there.”

He looked at the table. “Yeah,” he said. “But the rest have to be planted outside.” He leaned in close, “‘Cause they’re wild birds.”

“Right,” I said.

“Dad.”

“Yeah?”

“Can we plant them tomorrow? Right out there in the lawn.” He pointed through his window to the grass below.

“Yeah,” I said.

That evening I called his doctor. She said that he could go outside, but only for a few minutes. He had to wear a hat, and had to bring his drip bag, and I had to make sure that all the sensors were hooked up again as soon as he was back in bed.

###

The next day, we went out there. He wore my wide-brimmed cowboy hat and clutched a small spade and one of those garden forks in each hand. I held his drip bag for him as we walked. “Do you want to use any of the soil out here?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “They’re wild birds. They can grow anywhere.”

“Right,” I said.

With great effort, he dug up a few clumps of grass, revealing the thick, grey dirt below. He sprinkled a handful of the seeds into each of the holes and carefully placed the clumps of grass back into place. The work was starting to wear on him, and he needed to take long breaks to catch his breath. When he caught it again, he nodded at me. “There,” he said.

I told him to leave the seeds and tools there, that I would take care of them later. I picked him up in my arms and was surprised at how light he was. Boys his age should be growing, not shrinking.

My heart fluttered as we went back to the house. He leaned to my ear and whispered, “Dad,”

“Yeah?” I whispered back.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Can you water the seeds every day for me? It’s hard for me to go outside.”

“Of course.”

“Dad,” he whispered again.

“Yeah?”

“Can you water them today?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Also,” he said. “When you mow, can you not cut that area. I don’t want to hurt the birds.”

“You got it,” I said.

I carried him up to his room and placed him in his bed. I hung his drip bag on its peg and put the plugs back into their ports. The machines started beeping and whirring. I lifted off the hat and kissed him on his smooth forehead.

I went back into the garage and filled a watering can from the hose. Setting aside the tools and bag of seed, I sprinkled some of the water over the area. I looked up at his window. Even though I couldn’t see him, I knew he was watching me. I hoped he approved of my work.

I tucked the spade and garden fork under my arm and rolled up the top of the bag. I walked back to the garage to find my wife standing there.

“What do we do if they don’t grow?” she asked.

“These seeds will sprout, the guy at the store said they would.”

She shook her head. “What do we do when they don’t grow birds?” she clarified.

“We pray for a miracle,” I said.

“I’m sick of asking that bastard for anything,” she said. “Selfish jerk.”

###

“Dad,” he said.

“Yeah?” I replied.

“What’s heaven like?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is that where grandma went?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“And kitty?”

“I think so.”

“Does everybody go there?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Will I go there?”

“Of course.”

He looked around his room, at the Lightning McQueen and Buzz Lightyear decals looking down on him. “Is it scary?” he asked.

“Is what scary?”

“Going to heaven. Dying.”

“Everybody’s scared of dying,” I said. “We’re scared because we don’t know what’s it like.”

“How do we know about heaven, then?” he asked.

“We were told by someone who claimed to know. We believe it.”

“Oh.”

“And it makes us less scared.”

He thought about this for a moment. “Why is mommy mad at God?”

“Because God’s taking you away from us.”

He nodded. “Well, I would be sad if God took her away from us, so I guess I understand.” He looked over at the brick red flowerpot full of soil and a buried seed. “After I say hi to grandma, I’ll tell God to apologize to mommy.”

“I think she’d appreciate that,” I said. The corners of my eyes burned as I said this.

###

“How can bad things happen to good people?” my wife asked. “How can this be happening to him? He would cry whenever he’d step on a bug!”

“Maybe God wants to spare him from some greater misery,” I suggested. “Maybe it’s better off he doesn’t learn that the world sucks and everybody hates each other and there’s no hope for anything.”

“I wish he’d take me instead.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’d offer myself in exchange in a heartbeat.”

She cleared her throat. “I’d kick him in the balls.”

###

The day the first shoots of plants grew out, we were out there again. He examined them like a scientist, pointing out the difference between the different plants that were starting to grow. “This one is probably the blue jay,” he said. “It looks bluer than the rest.”

After he had examined them until breathing became difficult, I picked him up, using both arms, even though I only needed one to carry him.

I carried him to his room and set him in his bed. I reattached the sensors before kissing his smooth forehead and telling him that I love him.

“Can you do anything you want in heaven?” he asked.

“I think so. Well, I don’t think you can sin.”

“What’s sin?”

I shrugged. “Doing something bad.”

“So I can’t lie or stand too close to the TV?”

“Probably not.”

“Can I have dessert before dinner?”

I thought about this. “I don’t see why not. Yeah.”

He smiled. “Good. When I get to heaven, I’m going to have dessert before dinner. I’ll have a double banana split with hot fudge, chopped nuts, and a cherry--no, two cherries--on top. I’ll still eat the meatloaf or whatever they’re serving, you know, ‘cause it’s polite, but I’ll have the ice cream first.”

“Do you want your dessert first tonight?”

He thought about this. Finally he shook his head. “No. I think I want it to be special. I mean, it’s heaven, right? It’s supposed to be special.”

I smiled at the most perfect little boy in the world. If he would have wanted, I would have given him as much ice cream and candy and soda as he could eat and drink. I know the doctor wouldn’t approve. She had written up a strict diet for him to follow.

In all honesty, I didn’t really see the point. Why make a little boy have to eat bland chicken and flavorless rice to extend his life a few days?

In all honesty, I completely understood. Why do we try to make that last bit of candle burn longer? We’re selfish. We’re greedy.

We need the light.

###

I was in the middle of the page, reading aloud how Dorothy and her gang were facing the vicious wasps of the Wicked Witch of the West. I’d skip the more gruesome pieces and sort of ad-lib a nicer version of the story as the Tin Woodman eviscerated one thing or another with his axe.

When the scarecrow offered up his straw to protect everybody from the stinging bugs, my son shouted “No!”

I paused in my reading. “It’s okay,” I said. “They’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t looking at me. His gaze was focused outside. My wife marched across the lawn, towards the birdseed growth, holding the gardening fork in her hands.

I dropped the book, pounded down the stairs, out through the door, and towards my wife. I caught the fork in my hands before she could drive it down  into the weedy growth.

“No,” I said in a whisper-shout. “We can’t do this.”

She yanked her hand free of the garden fork. “We can’t do this,” she said. “He’s going to find out, and it’ll be the last thing he finds out about this shitty world, and he’s going to die disappointed that you can’t grow birds from seeds.”

I glanced back up at the window. I knew he was watching. I placed my hand on my wife’s shoulder. “We have to do this,” I said. “For him.”

“And what happens when he learns the truth?”

“We pray for a miracle.”

“Don’t you think I’ve been doing that?”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

She looked up at the window. She sighed. “Let’s spend some quality time together,” she said. “While we can.”

We brought two folding chairs into his room, one on either side of the bed. I put the WALL-E DVD into the player and we watched it as a family, munching salt- and butter-free popcorn and drinking sparkling apple juice.

When WALL-E got crushed by the console near the end, my wife started to cry. Our son put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Mom,” he said. “He’ll be okay. EVE will fix him. Remember?”

“I know,” she said with a trembly voice. “It’s just that this part make me sad.” She placed her hand on top of his.

“Me too,” he said. “I feel like crying at this part too.”

We sat there in silence, watching our son watch the rest of the movie.

###

The sound of alarms woke us up in the night. My wife and I ran towards our son’s room, half asleep, still unsure what was going on. The monitors showed erratic patterns, and something wasn’t right. We both checked the cables and tubes and wires, and one of us dialed 911 and did our best to explain what was happening and how we needed help right now.

He grabbed my hand with one hand and my wife’s hand with another. He pulled us close. “I think this is it,” he said in a shuddery voice. “I forgot to pack.” He smiled. The plant on his end table had started blossoming into a small, blue flower.

Leaning to my ear, he whispered, “Keep watering the plants, okay?” I nodded.

To my wife he whispered something. She said, “I’ll try.” Her lip started to tremble, but she caught herself before crying.

“I love you both,” he said. “You’ve been the best parents a kid could ask for.”

He struggled to breathe a few times more, and then he was gone. The machines still blared in their chaos, but his face was still and calm. And peaceful.

We both clutched his little hands until the EMTs pounded on the door. I was the first to let go. I wiped the hot tears from my eyes and went downstairs to meet them.

They carried his tiny body out on a stretcher meant for an adult. Our sweet prince, dwarfed by a bed meant to carry someone three times his size. They muttered something about time of death and how they were so sorry and other things that just slid right off us.

My wife still held his hand as we went into the ambulance. I grabbed her other one and gave it a light squeeze. She squeezed back.

###

“Do little kids go to heaven?” I asked the pastor at the memorial.

“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t see why not.”

“But what if they’re not Christians?”

“Well, they’re kids. They don’t know any better.”

“But doesn’t the Bible say that only Christians go to heaven?”

“I think God makes a special case for children.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, “the Bible says you need to have faith like a child. And Jesus said for the children to come unto him. Stuff like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And besides, if God sent all the kids who die before they could understand good and evil to hell, he’d be a pretty big jerk.”

“Some might say he’s a pretty big jerk for taking away a little boy before his time.”

“We can’t understand why God does what he does, any more than the sparrow can understand the doings of man.”

###

We got home when it was dark. The house was quiet and still. My wife and I were silent. We just walked upstairs and paused at his room. The door was closed.

“You know,” she said. “I feel like if I open this door, he’ll be there, playing with Legos or Hot Wheels. You know, like before he got sick?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

“But I know that if I open the door, I’ll find it empty.” She reached out her hand toward the doorknob, but paused. “I don’t want to realize that. Not yet.”

I gave her a hug and held her close. I didn’t want to let her go.

###

Miracles are a funny thing. We pray to win the lottery. We pray that our team will win the Super Bowl. We pray that we won’t be late for work. We pray that our son won’t die from some terrible, incurable disease. We pray for this, that, or the other thing, and only sometimes do we get what we ask for.

Sometimes we get something different.

As a father--well, you know what I mean--I find it best to think of God like a parent. He listens to us cry and cry the first night we’re alone in our cribs in our own big-boy and big-girl rooms, and he’s hovering outside the door, trying to decide if he should come in and comfort us and delay the inevitable, or just be strong so we can be strong. Sometimes the hard times are the best times, because we’re better people at the end. And sometimes he gives us something for our perseverance.

We don’t always get what we want, but sometimes we get what we need. Something like that.

When I woke up the following morning, my wife wasn’t next to me. The house was quiet, but there was something beyond, something new that I had never heard before. I went downstairs, following the sound. She stood outside the door, looking at the patch of plants in the front lawn. She was crying.

At first, I thought that the sound I had heard was her crying, but that wasn’t it. The sound was different. It was whistling and chirping and squawking. I followed my wife’s gaze out to the lawn, out to the patch of tall weeds growing there.

The plants that sprouted from the birdseed were now swarming with birds. I noticed all the birds from the bag and more: blue jays, cardinals, robins, what I figured were starlings, doves, sparrows, and other birds I only barely recognized. They squawked and chirped and whistled and fluttered about, then as one, they flew into the sky, dragging some leaves and stems with them as they ascended. They disappeared out over the woods.

My wife looked at me. After a pause she said, “Was that the miracle?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t make me like him any better.”

We went back into the house. As we walked back upstairs, I thought about something I heard once, about how God’s doing his job right when you’re not sure he even did anything. I said, “If it was a miracle, it was the right kind.”

Before my wife could respond, we heard something whistling and chirping from our son’s room.

“Is there a bird in there?” she asked. “Did you leave the seeds in there? It’s probably in there eating them.”

She reached for the door.

“Careful,” I said. “It might be wild.”

She pushed the door open a tiny bit and we squeezed through, closing it behind us. We both scanned the room for the bird among the shadows of our son’s room.

“How could one get in?”

“I don’t know, the window?”

We saw it. It was a small, blue parakeet, sitting on the edge of the flower pot. It peeped a few more times before looking at us. It flew to my wife first, landing on her shoulder. It nuzzled her cheek. Then it flapped over to me and bumped its little head against my chin. Then it flew down to the bed.

It looked back and forth at us, its black eyes shining.

My wife reached out her hand. “Come on,” she coaxed.

The bird landed on her outstretched finger. She pet it with her other hand. It whistled contentedly.

“You know,” she said. “I think you’re right. About miracles, at least. This was the right kind.”

I nodded.

“I still don’t forgive God, though.” I saw her smile in the first time in a long time.

The bird clicked its tongue and whistled.