by Haley M. Forté
It all began with a hummingbird feeder that hung from a maple tree.
Watching the buzzing birds flit from perch to perch as the emerald leaves faded to their autumnal states was how Little Emilia wished to spend her mornings. Mother was always busy, and Father was never around. Sisters had come and gone, and all Little Emilia had was hummingbirds and their curiosity to add light to the start of her day.
The feeder had belonged to her grandmother, a cheerful woman before the bitterness of old age had set in, and joy turned to rage within every flutter of a wing. As her love of life faded, so did her interest in her birds. Now, it was up to Little Emilia to keep the plastic vessel filled with brightly-colored sugar water and the promise of the continued company alive.
The tree had only ever belonged to the earth. As Grandad had said, “If any ownership existed, Emilia, surely it would be the tree owning us rather than the other way around.” But Grandad was gone, too, having left them for good many winters back. Little Emilia had loved her grandfather with as much love as a nine-year-old little girl could. At a young age, she felt everything was constantly moving. The ground, the trees, and the little wings of her small hummingbird friends, and above all else, she noticed the movement of time.
Another odd concept, time was, for Little Emilia. The numbers on the clock made sense as she knew when the small hand was on the twelve, it was time for lunch. Then, when the small hand was on the eight, bedtime was near. It was the other parts of time she was unsure about, and she had questions. How long does it take to drive from Boston to Concord? Or how long does it take for a maple tree to sprout its roots? Those were the more difficult questions to answer, and Little Emilia wasn’t quite sure who to ask about any of it. If only hummingbirds could talk.
If hummingbirds could talk, Little Emilia would ask endless questions about endless things. She would wonder aloud about the sky, the trees, and if the brightly-colored sugar water was as tasty as the little birds made it out to be. Little Emilia wanted to know more.
Her feet hit the soft ground as she jumped from the porch. Mother wouldn’t be happy with her ruining her new white socks, but Mother was busy, and Father was already gone. Looking at the maple tree, she began to run, imagining the speed at which her wings would beat on the crisp air of September. Careless and captivated, she ran. Grass stained her clothes, and bees buzzed past her as if late for a meeting with their queen. The dew on the tall weeds dampened her torn pant legs and chilled her already cold flesh, mapping patterns in the long-dried veins beneath her greying skin. She could remember that feeling. Cold. It wasn’t that odd of a sensation even now. Now, it was a blip in the memory machine of her mind, living alongside images of sisters, grandparents, parents, friends, and more.
Question: How long does it take for grass to grow back after it has been disturbed?
Little Emilia knew that when the small hand reached the six, it was time for dinner. As long as the house was still quiet, that is. When the house became loud, things happened later, and Little Emilia would wait and watch outside the large glass windows, peering toward the maple tree, wishing to know what it would be like to fly. She stood beneath the maple tree now. The emerald green leaves tangled in her red curls remained still even as a breeze ruffled the boughs above her. She had climbed the tree a dozen times, maybe more. She could still feel the sharp bite of a splinter in her left palm. How long does a splinter take to heal? Another question for the birds.
Stepping closer to the palace of sugar and maple, fresh soil pressed into her feet, but no new grass sprouted from the chocolate-colored earth. What did, however, were two planks of weathered wood. One nailed to the other in a familiar shape. Little Emilia had seen this shape atop churches when she would go with Grandmother. It meant something important, she remembered. Painted flowers along the pieces of wood mirrored the ones she and Mother had painted on a wooden step ladder that she used to refill the feeder.
Little Emilia looked up and saw no fluttering wings or brightly-colored sugar water. Just an empty plastic tube that caught the light, reflecting it onto the odd cross hammered into the ground. A cross made of the old step ladder. The step ladder that broke, she now remembered. Two more questions: How long does it take to notice someone hasn’t come in for dinner? How long is “just a minute” when it’s said four times in a row? Mother had said, “Just a minute,” but Little Emilia needed to fill the feeder, as she had every Sunday when the small hand was on the four, as she had with the same step ladder with the painted flowers.
Until it had broken.
No chill ran across her cheeks as she read her name on the little cross. No tears were shed as she realized the year on the cross did not match the one she had noticed on the morning paper. This year was three numbers too low. The quiet grew to be too much, the world void of music as Little Emilia stared at her own grave.
A final question: How long does it take for someone to realize they’re dead?
No sound reached her through the thickening veil, not even the buzz of fluttering wings. If hummingbirds could talk, Little Emilia began to hope that instead, for her, they would sing.
Category: Featured, Short Story, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing, SNHU Student