On Our Own (flash fiction)

By Constance Emmett

After my children left home, I felt such relief. They’d filled my small house, taken up every square inch, but now I have it all to myself.

In the heat of the day there’s no bird song in my garden, just the sound of the wind. Two weeks ago, as I deadheaded a vibrant red verbena, I made a discovery. Each cut of the dried flowers and cat’s tongue leaves filled the air with the scent of lemons, but I stopped, clippers in midair. There, hidden in the brush of the plant, was a perfect nest holding speckled eggs, blue and brown. One second, I was looking at three eggs, the next, the top of one egg was pushed off, revealing a helpless looking creature—dark head, beak wide open and pointed at me, soundless, the large eyes shut.

As I positioned an umbrella to shade them, the parent bird—to me, the mother—gave me the once-over before fleeing. She flew back with her wriggling catch. Tchep tchep, she called, as she flew back and forth.

The next day, I peered into the nest and saw three downy chicks. They slept through my inspection, and I could see their hearts beating. The mother had removed every scrap of eggshell from her finely woven nest.

Watching her reminded me of the endless work of motherhood—all the scenes of drudgery flashed through my mind, just as the rewards had flashed by. I’m supposed to miss my children, I know, but I’m here where they left me. My son threw out his cell phone, says it causes brain cancer. The permanent crease in his young forehead bears testament to his worries. He works towing long trains of recycling bins on a bicycle. I saw him, riding up a steep hill, his calf muscles in knife-sharp contraction. I pulled my car over and surprised myself by crying, really sobbing.

My daughter worked from age fourteen to get scholarships and leave. She said she was ashamed to bring her friends home. Now she has a high-powered job, moving between cities. I’ve had to ask where to send her birthday present more than once.

I wasn’t the greatest mother, but I did my best, all on my own.

The last day I saw the chicks, I’d worked in the garden until my head throbbed with heat. Hat off, my sodden shirt followed and I sat in my bra in the shade drinking cool salted water.

I watched one of the chicks, fully feathered now, jump down and hop toward the blooming hydrangea. The mother’s tcheping became frantic as I watched a second fledgling stand on the lip of the hanging pot. No, don’t jump!  Landing, she hopped after her sister. The third one watched me from the nest.

The next day, the mother bird was still tcheping. The nest was empty and I watered the parched plant with abandon. I spoke to her. “You did your best, all on your own.”