{Irruption}: an invasion of birds in unusual places

Monthly Archives: May 2014

Ice 4-22-14

“April is the cruellest month…”—T.S. Eliot

The ice smothering the inland lake where I live melts slowly some winters as if not merely a body of water, but a human body slowly dying, exhaling slowly as if mist rising or fog lifting, before gasping for one last breath. April’s cruelty reveals itself in other years by forcing violent winds to wreak havoc upon the shoreline. Broken ice floes creep steadfastly up the rocks, their push and pull give birth to small bergs of diamonds grinding and moaning towards the sandy beach. With the promise of spring, hidden in the bones of cold artic air, we speak of daffodils, tulips, and death.

Ten years ago in April, my father-in-law, Carl, died.

Eight years ago in April, my friend Laura told me she had a Stage IV glioblastoma.

As the ice begins to shed its skin each April, loons’ cries echo across the still water in the damp morning air. We search the lake for their small black heads, and then watch as they dive deep into the clear water seeking minnows or perch to feast upon. Mallards promenade up our neighbors’ boat ramp, before waddling towards our yard, seeking refuge under our bird feeders as they devour seeds dropped by chickadees and goldfinches. At the slightest intrusion, the ducks quack loudly and begin their awkward square-dance moves before strutting off in indignation or taking flight. Robins build nests under our upper deck. Deer and foxes stumble through snow-free lawns along the shoreline searching for sustenance. Raccoons and skunks sneak into our yard at night to scavenge what others have left behind.

I keep waiting for Carl to walk down the hill from his house to ours and tell us about the project he plans to work on that day.

I keep waiting for Laura to step out on her front porch and tell me a story as the two of us ease into our morning run.

On May 1st this year, I ran 7.4 miles, a distance I had not run in a very long time. After suffering a grand mal seizure during a road race in October of 2011 and finding out that a brain tumor—a meningioma—would completely change my life forever, I could not run, could not form clear sentences, and could not remember if I had done something the day before. My world went gray as if I, too, had been covered by a thick layer of ice. The first time I went for a run, my husband followed me. I ran ahead of him until I finally turned around and ran back to him. Before long, I knew I could run on my own and not be afraid.

One day I saw Laura’s parents as I ran past their house, and I told them about my brain tumor.

The lake, as smooth as glass, reflected their sorrow and my guilt for being alive.

April holds us taut in its grasp, and we run towards May with heavy arms.