Moving away, I’ll miss my winged neighbors
I’ll miss so much about my ancestral home—the birds most of all. They are the first sounds I hear upon waking. And throughout the day, I often pause and listen to them going about their business— busy little creatures.
We see a few migratory birds in this high alpine valley, but there are sedentary species around the house. They live here year-round, nesting in delicate birches and thick firs. The magpies, four couples at the moment, are the loudest and most entertaining. Each pair in their tree argues with its mate and neighbors. I also love the delicate blue and crested tits and the unassuming-looking blackbirds. The sparrows live in large colonies in the honeysuckle edges; they, too, are noisy and stop their racket abruptly when I come near the fence; they wait a short while before resuming their song, calling out to each other about tasty worms and lurking cats.
Calling out to each other is what my brothers and I did when our parents began to age. Ten years ago, I volunteered to help care for my mother after my father died. Maman was not only bereaved but also drained, and I thought I could take the time to be with her. Somehow, I managed. I sublet my flat to students on a short-term basis so that I could regularly return to New England and be a Bostonian.
Meanwhile, I began teaching English in France to job seekers who wanted to improve their language skills and work in tourism. It was a part-time position, and I enjoyed my students, a diverse group of adult learners. Thus, four years of flying between Boston and Geneva followed. It was neither simple nor inexpensive, but my mother was easy to be with, and I was thankful for the time we could spend together.
My brother Jean and I lived with her in the big house, ensuring she did not fall and wasn’t lonely. On Sundays, Jean always remembered to bring home a pastry– the finest, of course– and we laughed at her childlike delight in savoring it.
“ La gourmandise is not a sin.” She assured us and added with mischief as an inside joke: “If it is, I am forgiven”.
In her traditional Catholic upbringing, loving sweets and pastries was barely sinful.
“Il y a des choses bien plus graves, n’est-ce-pas?.” She would add.
Always an avid reader, Maman’s sight had diminished. On long winter days, my favorite errand was to go to the local library and return with a bag full of large-print novels to present to her. She would be thrilled. Occasionally, she would pick up a book and, after a few pages, say:
“I think I‘ve read it already. It feels familiar, but I don’t remember much, so I’ll continue reading”.
Maman died in 2016, and I returned to Boston to teach English as a Second Language and French to bilingual children until retirement.
I have been back in the French Alps and the family home since. I needed to be here while my brothers and I decided what to do with the house. We were four siblings with four separate stories and unique circumstances and needs. What bound us was the house itself and our father’s solemn request that we keep the home in the family.
We couldn’t sell and had no means to buy each other out. So, by trial and error, we established an informal shared living space for a few years – a mountain base camp – and we held on.
But in the end, we have to let it go.
Our parents are gone, and the home will soon be too. Like the birds around the house, my brothers and I will fly away, no longer neighbors inhabiting the garden but calling out to each other from great distances when there is a sadness to share or birth to celebrate.
I’ll miss my brothers, the magpies, the sparrows and the magnificent sun-filled trees that define the boundaries of our land.
Photo by REGINE THOLEN on Unsplash
