The Hummingbird Feeder

Rather than having a garage as typical American houses do, my house contained a carport.

On that carport, there was a swing that squeaked each time it swung. My sister hated the noise and thus, never came out.

On that carport, there was a giant black tool box that rattled each time my father dug in it. It sat against the obsidian railing, and I loved the normality of it, loved to see my father out there, healthy and happy as he worked on his latest project.

On that carport, there was a hummingbird feeder, and it gleamed a bright ray of red onto the slate concrete when the sun was at its peak. It was beautiful and collected ants, and those, too, were beautiful. Tiny ants swimming in thick nectar, unknowing that it would end with their demise, just enjoying the saccharine liquid.

My mother loved her little bird feeder. She made Dad go out and buy one when she saw an emerald beauty zoom past the house, towards a nectar-filled heaven at the house below us.

My mother thought her bird feeder was the best in the neighborhood. “Look how they all come here,” she’d said to me, her white sunflower shirt making her already pale skin look like snow. “We must have the best nectar in the world.”

I laughed at her, laughed with her, because it was all I could do to get through seeing her…