I scrubbed the hummingbird feeder and filled it with fresh nectar over a week ago. Since that time, not one has come. I knew they wouldn’t. I knew they had left, but I did it just in case.
Years ago, when my daughter bought her own house and moved out, I continued to set the table with four dishes, at first instinctually, and then, just in case.
Last times are hard whether we know it’s goodbye, or whether we realize their loss sometime later. When was the last time I held Rockland’s hand while crossing the street? I had taken, for a while, to writing things down—just in case. But now I purpose to notice and simply enjoy the moments.
This morning, I listened to the caws of Blue Jays, sipped my cooling coffee, watched Graycie resting on a chair, and Ivy sleeping on the love seat on my screened porch.
The hummingbird feeder remains empty of visitors while the nearby zinnias continue to flourish. I could take down the feeder and bring it in for the winter, but I leave it a while longer.
Just in case.
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