The Carolina Wren

Written while listening to Briana Marela’s “Everything is New.” 

Outside the window of my loft the daffodils push through the warm winter.  The forsythia buds early yellow, and greens emerge.  I spy a house finch at the freshly filled feeder and am up here keeping a lookout for the Carolina wren we heard this morning.  The rain is slowing. 

I am also hiding from my husband.  He got laid off last week.  Tim was an assistant project manager building booths and displays for trade shows.  No trade shows happening now or in the foreseeable future.  He warned me three weeks ago when talk of the virus was starting to spread that he knew this was coming.  “What are you talking about?  You’re a valued asset to that company."

"They won't be able to pay my salary."

"You’re being paranoid.”  Then he started stocking up on pasta and creamed corn, and I knew I lost him. 

I think the last time I ate creamed corn was when I was seven and my dad was out of work.  I threw it up that night, and the fact that it looked the same coming out as going in was enough to ensure that I’d never eat it again.  Tim said, “Don’t worry.  I’ll eat it.  And when it’s all we have, you’ll want to eat it, too.  Maybe I’ll share.” 

Again, I chalked it up to irrational overreaction.   “Tim, it will never come to us trapped in our house eating creamed corn.”  Well, he was right about his job. 

And now the world is shutting down.  Yesterday the governor ordered no businesses to allow more than fifty people to gather.  Today, it is ten.  Schools are closed.  I am a teacher on forced hiatus, and Tim has been trying to manage me for four days now.  I’m being kind and following his orders.  What must it feel like to have no job to go back to when this madness ends? Yesterday he sent me out armed with Lysol wipes in a sandwich baggy.  “Get water and toilet paper before the stores shut down completely.”  North Shore Farms was the only place around with water, but only one 24-pack per customer.  As for toilet paper, well, you know how that story goes.  Instead I bought several pounds of rice, thinking it’s binding and may limit our need for toilet paper.  “Smart,” Tim said, and I felt oddly proud. 

What is happening to us?  We had a five-year plan that was supposed to transition us smoothly into retirement, which included making retirement-minded purchases and getting renovations done to our house to make it the perfect place in which to ride out the rest days.  That plan no longer seems feasible.  Who knows how long it will take Tim to find work again?  Who knows for sure about anything right now?  (I spot my first goldfinch.  Such a sight.  No wren, though.)

Will I have money to plant Robert’s garden this year?  My brother passed away May 5, 2016 and each May 5 I go out and buy begonias and impatiens which bloom through his August 16 birthday and sometimes right into October.  His garden is near the firepit area where I spend my summer nights with Tim, with my grown children, and with our friends.  I make sure to plant some white begonias so they glow in the moonlight.

Robert was four and a half years older than me.  He taught me how to be in this world.  Together, we weathered the storms of a tumultuous childhood as best we could, though we did not come out unscathed.  But at least we could always talk to each other about our scars.  Through the years, we played kickball with shared neighborhood friends, rode bikes to the creek to catch fish and frogs, buried our dog in the backyard, and helped our father die peacefully.    

I try to imagine what Robert would be doing today.  He was never one to panic or get tied up in politics.  His music took him to some beautiful places, and he loved life.   And he loved his family.  Robert was the only one who’d take my autistic daughter anywhere and everywhere.  Other family members are too embarrassed by the things she says and does.  

And Robert was an optimist.  He believed he’d cure his stomach cancer.  He would have, he just ran out of time.

I believed in Robert.  (The sun is out now.  There are four goldfinches at the feeder.)  I believe he’d be riding his bike right now, breathing in the fresh air, enjoying the day.  Maybe he’d come over tonight and sit by the firepit.  There’d be no empty garden outlined there because my brother would be alive.  He’d take out his guitar and sing. (I can hear his voice as clearly as I heard that elusive Carolina wren's song this morning.)  And I’d realize, life is good.  And this is just another thing that we will get through. 

Tim is beneath me in the kitchen, whistling.  I’ve labeled him cheerfully pessimistic.  He trains an electric nail gun at the front door.  He sees me looking down at him from the loft.  “I’m going to teach you how to use this later.” 

“You mean, in case someone tries to break in to steal our supplies?”

“You bet.”  Tim’s all business.  I am learning not to laugh at his predictions, though.  Perhaps darker days are ahead.  But I have tasted hard times before. 

They taste like creamed corn.