Birdsongs at sunrise provide Theresa Padden and her mother with a moment of shared beauty while an inevitable loss looms over them.
Early summer 1997. My mom was nearly deaf due to aggressive tumors on her acoustic nerves. On a Sunday morning, we set out pre-dawn, headed to Spring Lake in the regional park near her house in Santa Rosa. Mom wanted to listen to the dawn chorus of birds. Neither of us mentioned that it would, most likely, be the last time she would hear it.
It was still dark as we picked our way to the lake’s edge, the air perfumed with sweet dried grass made spicy with dew. We settled ourselves on the flat boulders at the shore, waiting for light to spill over the soft shoulder of hills. The riot of birdsong commenced the instant sunrise flashed in the lake and the bushes teemed with activity as the chirping and warbling grew to a crescendo. I watched my mother’s face as the music rose and fell – it was at once filled with shiny gladness and unutterable loss.
Each sense filled until saturated – myriad gradations of greens, sun-tipped and shadowed; sparkling sky reflected in the ruffled water; the midnight chill of smooth rocks penetrating my bones; the sun’s welcome warmth seeping into my skin; the baked scent of earth and honey-gold grass, dusty ripe blackberries and the fetid edge of water fowl; the plastic aftertaste of instant coffee leaving a sweet-milky film on my tongue; the friendly harmonies of birdsong and the playful slaps of wavelets on the rocks; my mother’s deep breathing. Steeped in beauty, suffused in light and song, our fear and common sorrow for what would so soon be lost were momentarily dispelled. We sat until our backsides were numb and the birds had flown off on their daily errands.
With a perspective, I’m Theresa Padden.