June 2009

From the Book of Job, chapter XII, verses vii-x: But ask now the beasts and they shall teach thee. And the fowl of the air and they shall tell thee. Or speak to the earth and it shall teach thee, and the fishes of the sea shall declare unto thee. For who knoweth not, in all these, that the hand of the LORD hath wrought this, in whose hand is the soul of every living thing.

Because my schedule is tied to the academic workday, I am back home, up on the hill, long before D returns each evening. Most days, that time is filled with quick chores—lugging the rubbish to the curb, chopping up ingredients for dinner, other mundane activities necessary to running a house. But occasionally, when everything is right in my world, I get home from work and have nothing pressing me into duty. On those days, the dog and I usually end up sitting on the porch or out on the patio, soaking up the late afternoon sun.

Last week, we were doing exactly that, the dog and I—relaxing on the porch and waiting for D’s return—when there was a sharp rap on the glass. Looking out, I could see that a tiny yellow finch had flown into the full-length windows that encircle the porch. It sat on the ground, stunned, for a second or two, then shook its head from side to side, just like a cartoon character after running into a signpost or some other obstacle. But, unlike a cartoon, the head-clearing shake gave way to a quick seizure, and suddenly the little bird fell over, dead.

The dog was on my lap, and witnessed this small drama unfold. She watched intently as a second finch, this one even smaller than the first—obviously a chick, given its tiny size and still-downy feathers—flew over and landed on a small rock next to the dead bird. The chick cocked its head, then hopped back and forth nervously between its rocky perch and the body of the adult finch several times before finally flying off. When it flew away, the dog jumped down from my lap and disappeared upstairs.

After quickly burying the finch under a redbud tree next to the bird feeders, I went back inside to wash up. I found the dog huddled in her crate, shaking uncontrollably. The shaking happens a lot when she’s cold, given her small size and short coat. But going into the crate voluntarily is unusual; she retreats there only when ill or to escape large crowds. Somehow, I believe she understood what she’d watched with such interest. What she made of the quick and arbitrary death of the bird, or the confusion of the smaller chick, I can only guess at. That she was upset by it, however, was clear.

PBS broadcast a special on Memorial Day that took viewers to each of the 21 American overseas military cemeteries in eight countries throughout Europe, Northern Africa, and the Philippines. While explaining the history behind each, and the battles that led to the 125,000 American servicemen and women interred therein, the program’s real power lay in the interviews with the families of the fallen and the Europeans who lived through the invasions and liberations. To the last, they spoke of bravery and purpose, of duty and honor. From President Roosevelt’s son to General Patton, from band leader Glenn Miller to the airmen whose bodies were so entangled that they had to be buried together, unidentified, these men and women died a death—whether quick and arbitrary like my finch’s, or slowly and deliberately at the hands of the enemy—that deserves commemoration. Those interviewed understood the responsibility the living have to the memory of the fallen.

The finch and the soldiers ended up together in my dreams that night. The bright yellow bird lighted on one of the thousands of white grave markers D and I visited near Omaha Beach in Normandy several years ago. I watched it in my dream, as it looked about, then flew straight away, off into a huge chestnut tree covered in white flowers. I don’t know what the dream meant, if anything, but I was happy, when I awoke, that I’d taken the time to bury the tiny, weightless body.