Bird Feeder

I went to see my Granny Saturday, something that I have neglected to do as often as I should. Camille and I went to Rolling Ridge Retirement Center to visit her, and as we walked in her room, we found her snoozing in her recliner as usual. We began talking about this and that, asking each other how things have been. Granny began reminiscing about her past and speaking about her funeral. She told Camille and I what songs she wanted to sung at her funeral, how my Pa died in her arms in his old green truck, and about how tired she was. She said that she knew her time was coming soon, and her only wish was that she could feel like herself again just one more time.I asked her if she had any regrets, and she told me “that she wished she would have been a better woman.” This concept is foreign to me. My Granny has never been short of a hero for me and the other grandchildren of the family. She also told me that she wish she hadn’t worked so hard when she was younger. She said with a smile, “working so hard kindly’ hurt my feelings. I reckon it never hurt me, but it sure did hurt my feelings.” 89 years old and still joking around.Sitting back in her chair, she turned her head and looked out her window to her bird feeder. It hung there, empty, with no bird in sight. She commented “I got this new bird feed the other day, but I havent seen one bird yet. I am getting kind of mad.” As we sat there talking, I looked around her room and saw all the pictures of our family and the people closest to Granny; I saw the do not resuscitate sign hanging over her bed; and I saw one of the most loving women sitting in a chair waiting for gone.

I am not sure the significance of our conversation yet, but I cannot get that bird feeder out of my mind. I don’t what it was about it, but granny staring out the window at the empty bird feeder broke my heart. Thinking about Granny and how I hope she can be herself just one more time reminds me of a classic poem by Dylan Thomas. I hope you find it as intriguing as I do.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

 

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 

 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 

 

 

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