An hour south of Tucson my elderly parents live in a newish, cavernous home in a nondescript development. It has become my habit to visit about twice a year, to check in, to see about their needs, to enjoy the desert. During my last visit it was upwards of 90º every day of a scorching late October.
In the first forty-five minutes after my arrival, we have already discussed senior living arrangements and by midafternoon I feel ready for a long nap. Later my mother sifts through her silver jewelry and offers me piece after piece with stories of who made it and where she bought it, perhaps who she traveled with or how much it cost. They are generous gifts with rich narratives passed between generations but I know I’ll never remember the stories.
In the mornings I rise earlier than anyone else and sit with coffee at the back of my parents’ yard, lifted on a slope of white gravel and perched on a folding chair, balancing carefully so I don’t tip backwards. I look out over the Fort Huachuca army base. There are no buildings, only acres of desert filled with ocotillo and yucca and pebbly dirt spreading all the way to the mountains to the west. At first the sky sleeps in darkness and a half-moon hangs overhead like a silver pendant. Then over the rooftops, dawn rises and the mountains appear, like a print on polaroid film.
My mother and I make the short drive to historic Tombstone. We walk along the boardwalk and amble through tourist shops. The people hired to dress in period clothes and hang around like it’s still 1885 must be sweltering in the blistering sun. We take a ride around town in a horse-drawn coach. I worry about the horses and watch my mother pet the small dog a pair of tourists brings on the ride. The town is quaint and I find myself charmed.
Each day I watch the sun rise. One morning a coyote saunters by ten yards from my chair but doesn’t look at me. I make a time-lapse video of the dawn. The sun illuminates the far western mountains, then the desert, and a patch of yellow grass grows larger, its bright edge creeping toward where I sit, before I turn the video off. A pair of the ridiculous Gambel’s quail poke by near my feet, cranking into a sprint when one’s beady eye spots me. A hawk lands on the fence just out of arm’s reach and appraises me for a few seconds before winging away.
Sometimes I think our human minds are like a hollow place where birds can settle, lining the consciousness with feathery down and weighing into it with their warm breasts.
My parents and I visit the art museum in Tucson. I drive because I-10 scares me with its insistent truck traffic, tolerable only if I’m behind the wheel. I watch my parents closely in the museum. After lunch in the cafe, which is too loud for conversation, we drive into the mountains to an Indigenous art dealer1 they favor and peruse the cases of jewelry. The owner emerges to shake my hand and ask questions about my work. We go the scenic way home because a semi-truck crash has backed up traffic an hour on the interstate.
In the late afternoon I need my alone time and venture back outside to see about the animals. Birdy lives unfold every second as the day expands and contracts. Raucous battles between Anna’s hummingbirds send the tiny creatures speeding like missiles over my head. At dusk I witness a large raptor launch from a spindly tree nearby and execute a sharp turn, then a barrel roll in pursuit of dinner.
Sometimes I think the birds nesting in our human minds become active when we feel agitated, fluttering and battering against the hollowed space of their home.
I can hear the TV inside as my parents increase the volume to deafening levels to watch the news. At dinner we eat food my mother has prepared in advance and bicker about everything, but I know it’s my fault for being impatient. The birds in my own mind are peevish, pecking at everyone and at me too. I go to bed early. That night someone is having a party nearby. I can hear a woman’s shrill laugh for hours.
On the last full day of my visit my mother and I meander through a local consignment/curiosity shop and I spot a very beautiful, very expensive silver jewelry set. I settle for something much smaller. There is also a hideous Indian crèche and some amusing kitsch including a Marilyn Monroe last supper painting with a mostly-naked Jesus figure posed in front of it.
I wonder what happens when the mind begins to blink out, fuzzing around the edges until finally the substance disappears. Do the birds vanish too?
On the morning of my flight home I make a time-lapse of the sun rising over the rooftops. I match it to audio of a mockingbird and curve-billed thrashers. A pair of the thrashers live in the bush just by the fence. I notice they emerge every morning just as the light touches their home. They perch on the fence and greet the sun. I stand next to them and greet the sun. Together we make an offering and express a hope to keep a home among the branches, in the hollow where we’ve found our solace.
The art is Indigenous, not the dealer
Check you out with the specific bird ID stuff!! Nice writing!
That was mindfully birdilicious. Thanks for the time-lapse sunrise.