Where Do Birds Go When It Rains?

During the final week of my mother’s life, I paced the same two blocks from her hospice bed to the end of the road and back, getting rained on and feeling each drop on my face like a tear I couldn’t cry.

On that same route, I passed a school. There was a tree planted in the yard, sturdy and wet, holding much of the rain at its crown to protect what was beneath it. During recess, the children played in the rain and ran to the tree forming a huddled cluster underneath it, shoulder to shoulder. They giggled and held each other close. Maybe the point wasn’t to stay dry. Maybe the point was to be together and feel the idea of shelter.

There were birds - not flying away or scattering but gliding back and forth between the power lines and the trees. They looked like they were trying to land but would only temporarily, like they didn’t trust the ground or the wires. Like they didn’t know where safety was.

I’ve wondered where birds go when it rains. Whether the trees hold just enough water to keep them dry and if that’s all they need: a canopy, a rest stop, somewhere to be held.

I stood watching the children and the birds and realized I had lost my shelter, even though my mother hadn’t died yet. I no longer had access to her gritty, scrappy strength.

She stopped calling my name.

Her choice to stay alive was all that was left, even when death seemed like the better option. She was invested in feeling her own shelter, and that preoccupation carried her away from me. I held her in small moments when she landed, her soft hands a refuge, a something to hold in the rain. I held her so close. I sang to her like the morning birds.

I circled the edges of death with her, waiting for the moment to name itself. Nowhere felt still enough to land.