Empty Nest

This summer we’ve enjoyed watching a little family of quail that have taken up residence under the bushes in our back yard. I see quail families regularly when I take my morning walk along the canal, and usually there are 4-7 young. Perhaps this family, in our yard, used to have more, but now they have only two chicks.

As of yesterday, make that one.

If you’ve ever watched quail parents, you’ve probably seen how they try to lead predators away from the nest or babies. They are fierce parents. Yesterday, the neighbor’s cat who prefers to hunt in our yard earned herself a lunch of baby quail.

It was hard work—the parents were fierce in their defense, flying at the cat, jumping and squawking around its face as if to say, “Take me instead! Don’t I look more rewarding? Look at all this fine flesh!” But, in the end, the cat got a baby. I tell myself that this is life; this is how the world works, and it’s best to train myself not to care.

What is the evolutionary purpose of the sadness we feel when we see an animal die? (Or is that evolutionary? Do those who live by hunting feel that sadness?)

I’ve been wondering about those bereft parents today. I imagine that after that battle their muscles are sore, and that small as their brains are, these parents are sad. One baby left.

I myself have only one baby left.

Sure, with this Coronavirus lifestyle, my house is busier than usual. I have two young adult sons who are home with us, doing their classes on-line. (Another is off in another state.) And the one who would be here alone with his parents if circumstances were different is enjoying the company of his brothers. It is a relief to us as his parents to have the other boys here for him to recreate with. They take regular breaks from their school and on-line jobs to go out and shoot hoops together. They have minecraft tournaments together. We all play card games and binge-watch together in the evenings. It has felt almost festive.

But I already feel the small sadness at the back of everything that comes from knowing that the empty nest is just over the horizon. We have one year left with my youngest. And I’ve already been through this enough to know that a senior year doesn’t count much—he won’t be home much at all, and even when he is, his thoughts will be elsewhere. That is life. That is evolutionary biology. He’s on his way out.

And yet the others were on their way out, but here they are. It’s not as if they leave my life forever . . . But of course it is. They are not mine anymore. They are guests. We all feel a little strange when I assign them chores. I feel as if they’ve done me a favor when they participate in an activity with me. Our roles have already switched (“When you coming home, Dad/Son?” “I don’t know when, but we’ll get together then”).

I don’t have anything profound to say about all this—just that I’m thinking about those quail parents. I hope they are able to raise that remaining chick. Even if they can’t, though, they’ll have another spring to try again, I suppose.

I’ll, too, have my own kind of spring. Already I am making lists of things I can do in the coming years (especially since I might be doing them with a strong heart? Maybe?). I have ideas. Learning a new language with Rog. Backpacking. More writing, of course. Getting the house updated.

And, like the glow behind the mountains before sunrise, there is the tiny and growing idea of grandbabies.

I’m going to be OK.