It’s become tradition to hang the hummingbird feeder on my son’s birthday at the beginning of May, and then wait. It’s a labor of love, as there is often a delay between the preparation and the sighting. I clean the feeder with soap and water; then sanitize in a mixture of water and bleach. I prepare the nectar—4 parts water to 1 part sugar—dissolve and cool. I pour the nectar into the feeder, attach the top, hang it on a shepherd’s hook in an area I can see from my porch, and wait.
This time it took six days, but this morning I saw it. Stealth in nature, it appears, it hovers, wings flapping to the point of disappearance. It dips, it hovers, it lands, it drinks. It hovers, it zips away.
I find myself smiling, holding my breath, as I witness another first. This hummer is likely passing through as it migrates to its summer home. He is merely a migrator—resting, refreshing, reinvigorating. A welcome visitor.
There’s something about the first. There is a wonder in what has not been seen before. It sets the stage for what’s to come. It provides hope in the next thing.
Our beloved dog, Roger, died two years ago today. Last summer we planted a climbing rose bush in our front yard in his honor. This weekend, the first rose, red like wine, emerged, tall and straight, and with it, a reminder of hope and love that never dies.