The Fluttering Heart

Creative Nonfiction by Sarah Horne of Cerro Coso Community College
2nd Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards

Spring was always the most beautiful time of year for me in little Ocala, Florida. My childhood home was a three bedroom, brick and wooden house that looked far less grand on the outside than the inside. Mustard trees framed the house at each corner with a shrubbery accenting the front lawn. There was a bay window that captured the sunset and sent rainbows across the sandy walls and cherry wood baby grand piano in the evenings. But it was the mornings that I loved the most.

When the sun finally rises over the neighboring rooftops, the rays pierce the windows illuminating the swirling dust motes over tile floors. The birds sing and flit from branch to grass, hunting insects and arachnids for breakfast.

One exceptionally beautiful spring morning, I heard a soft, pronounced thud on the west-facing bay windows. I padded over to the window in my pajamas after admiring the dusty swirls in the kitchen. Peering through the pane, I saw a little tea wren laying on its back. It’s little chest heaving. It must have hit the window. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Birds often hit the windows and, after a moment, continued with their daily lives.

I wanted to take advantage of his temporary paralysis to observe him closely. Birds rarely sit still long enough for anyone to truly observe their beautiful features. I quickly and quietly exited the front door and sidled closer to the little bird. He was still laying on his back, breathing furiously. I crouched over him for a moment, absorbing all his beauty and the wonder of how such little wings could carry him so far.

But within a few seconds I began to realize his wounds were worse than I thought. He wasn’t recovering like other birds. I began to panic. I didn’t want this precious, tiny creature to die. I carefully reached out and whispered fruitless reassurances and picked him up. I held the little thing closer to try to find where the break was and prayed it was just a wing and not the spine. But alas, as I turned to bring him inside to a safe, warm bed until I figured out what to do, I saw his last breath shudder through his slightly open mouth. I could see his little tongue through his orange-yellow beak, and I could see the light in his beautiful eyes fade.

I was so taken by his death, I stood there, profoundly still. Now I wasn’t observing the beauty of life as I was just a few short minutes ago, now I was observing the beauty of death. He was just there and then he was gone.

After giving him a brief burial in my back yard, I went back inside and pondered what I had just witnessed. I considered how tragic it was to lose such a peaceful little creature.

It wasn’t until many years later that I held death in my hands again, but this time, he was far more precious.

I was in Pennsylvania on business, when I got the phone call. My mother called and she sounded a little stressed out. She had always been worrisome so I wasn’t alarmed. She told me my grandfather was sick and I needed to find a way to go to him immediately. I figured she was overreacting and when I arrived beside his hospital bed in the intensive care unit less than 24 hours later, I was certain the whole mess was a misunderstanding.

I greeted him and held his hand and gave him my warmest smile to let him know how much I loved him. My Aunt had arrived the day before and my grandmother explained the situation to us. He was short of breath a few days prior and the doctor discovered scar tissue growing in his lungs. They gave him steroids so his body could fight off the growth, but no matter how much they gave him, nothing was working. His lungs were turning into solid tissue and he could no longer breathe on his own.

I couldn’t believe it. He looked fine. His eyes and smile were as bright as ever. He was cognizant and was maintaining a healthy diet, but within two days of my arrival, he could no longer think straight due to lack of oxygen and he could no longer sustain food. They hooked up an IV to him which turned the urine in his catheter blood red. The nurse assured us this was normal but she also urged us to decide quickly what we wanted to do. My grandfather’s discomfort was increasing every day. His mouth and throat were becoming more and more dry as air was forced into his lungs by the cursed machine incessantly beeping next to him.

The time came when my grandmother could no longer bear seeing him in pain. After taking him off the air pump, he didn’t last long. My Aunt and grandmother held his hands as he started gasping for air. My grandmother started crying and since they had taken him off the air supply, they no longer monitored his heart rate. We all knew what was coming.

My grandmother asked me to track his heart rate for her so she would know exactly when his time had come. I grasped the back of his head, my thumb resting on the pulse at his neck. I didn’t cry, I didn’t shake. My Aunt and grandmother said their good-byes and told him how much they loved him. I was silent. I concentrated on his pulse. I stared at his face, tensed with pain as he gasped. I couldn’t feel his pulse. I thought I lost it. I scrambled to find it again. That’s when he gave one final attempt to breathe. His eyes flew open and he opened his mouth in a silent cry for his beloved wife of 50 years. He raised his arm, reaching out to her before collapsing back on his hospital bed. He was gone.

Just like the bird, he was right there in my hands as I watched the light leave his eyes. I felt his last breath. Death had taken one of the most precious creatures in this world away from me. He was gone. I would never see his warm, loving smile again. Just like the innocence of the little bird would never be witnessed on a peaceful, spring morning.