Spring 2024 - Recrudescence

Catherine Hoffman May 22. 2015.

But then comes a day when it’s suddenly not worth it. A day you know, for all the philosophising, you’ve been teetering on the edge. When in this beautiful world of a Northern spring’s plumply budding jasmine banked on the hotel’s terrace, I suddenly see — I do not prefer my own existence after what happened last evening. It was a small thing. Very small. But what I saw was all it took to snooker me over the edge. It was a kind of nothing. Just a bird. Not even a legendary albatross, or haughty hawk, or sacred dove, just a tiny, tufty little baby chick, crazed with thirst, hopping mad up and down on the grass. After the Lövér’s palatial diner in the hall, I had swanked down the stairs with an apple and serviette in my pocket, for a trot around the evening garden, when I heard a piercing shrill. It was a bird. Sickened, I stumped around looking under the shrubs. I found it. Bent to it. Then crashed to my knees because of the pain arrowing at my back when I saw the chick, its miniature beak stuck open in a cry. Without help, it was dying. The bird kept shrieking in an open-beaked squawk. So, at a loss, I grabbed that apple from my pocket, bit off a piece, barely managing to slot a morsel of it into the starveling’s beak. It was too big. But, a miracle! Though his neck was way too thin, he spiked the chunk, gulped it, gagged, but his throat pumped and pushed till he got it down! I bit off more bits, some still too big, they fell from his beak. Not managing to fit another piece into his beak, there were now only the gags of my own mutely screaming rage, my long hair, a net of needles whacking at my face not letting me see where to place the crumbs of moisture for him. But I tried. Kept it up. On and on, blind, my nose running itchy with snot and tears, but kept at it, he getting a bite, me feeding. As I sat plopped beside the no longer shrieking chick, he could have been calming, even settling at last. Then, the tiny thing, - I think it was a Cinke - leaned against my shin and fell asleep. With the stroke of a shaky, feather-light finger I gave his torn, tufty form the lightest of possible pats. Too small even for that. He nearly toppled over. But

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