Once Again, I Was Called Upon

Let me start by saying, I do not consider myself a “Disney Adult.” I prefer the term “Disney Anthropologist.” I believe this title is earned and demonstrated by my highly curated collection of historical Disney memorabilia: original sketches of Maid Marian from Robin Hood, Mary Blair concept paintings for Alice in Wonderland, my pièce de résistance, a retired tombstone from Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion.

But then again,
while I don’t DisneyBound
and have no desire to “rope drop,”
I do have this thing
where I’m convinced
birds should land on my hand
any time I put it toward the sky,
like a classic Disney Princess.

Which is very “Disney Adult” of me
and I understand how insane it sounds.
But!

A few years ago, a hummingbird somehow got trapped in my sunroom, ping-ponging off the windows like a tiny, iridescent drunk driver. It ricocheted between panes of glass, flashing a thousand shades of emerald in the afternoon light while I stood there convinced I had been called upon for a very specific purpose.

I extended my index finger and, by the grace of Walt Disney himself, this tiny thudding heartbeat covered in kaleidoscopic gem-toned feathers hopped on.

For maybe fifteen glorious seconds,
I had a hummingbird
perched on my finger.

I carried it to the door and thought,
Alright, the real test is
whether this bird stays with me.

It did not.

The second we got outside,
it shot off into the California sunshine
without so much as a thank you.

I did not care.

As far as I was concerned,
woodland creatures would now
recognize me as their rightful leader.

And unlike my deeply held childhood belief that one day the entire town would spontaneously break into a song-and-dance number everyone somehow inherently knew, this had actually happened.

I had a fucking hummingbird on my finger.

Reader, I have been insufferable ever since.

Also,
birdless.

Until last weekend.

---

The dusty, twenty-year old SUV with its left side-mirror held together with packing tape lurched to a stop. It was as hot, dirty and tired as we were, slogging back from my storage unit for the umpteenth time. I wasn’t sure my boyfriend or I would ever smile again; our faces unable to fight against gravity and the weight of the last month.

My head hung low as I trudged around the car, fighting the urge to crash out right there in the gutter because it would have been easier than pretending to play nice with my mom once back in the house.

“Hey babe,” my boyfriend said.
”There’s a bird over here. I think it’s hurt.”

I went from forty-year-old woman
having a curbside existential crisis
to emergency dispatch Snow White
quicker than you can say,
“Mirror, mirror on the wall.”

Either way my knees were going to end up burning on asphalt, but saving this fledgling from becoming another speed bump felt significantly more manageable and important than trying to solve any of my actual problems.

I opened up my hands to this little bird, hobbling on one leg, its tiny foot burning into the blacktop. I admit, given my previous experience, I was a little surprised it did not choose to just come with me. Instead, it kept lopsidedly hopping on its flimsy toothpick, taking two-inch attempts at flight, stopping only to keel over next to car tires.

So the only recourse
was to slowly chase it for two blocks
until it succumbed to my relentless concern.

Because if I couldn’t die in the gutter,
neither could this bird.

---

So there I was,
a Disney Princess.

My tiny feathered ward sat with me in the shade on my mother’s patio, blinking slowly and puffing its feathers against the afternoon heat. My boyfriend brought out a small bowl of water that the bird didn’t touch, which did distress me due to dehydration.

(The bird’s or mine, who’s to say.)

For a few calm minutes,
it settled into my palms.
Both of us content
to simply chill.

I naturally interpreted this as friendship.
Which obviously had to be documented.

But before I could click for a selfie,
the sliding door snapped open.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING
WITH A FREAKING BIRD?!”

I tried to explain to my mother that we both almost died in the street and that I was a Disney Princess but she wouldn’t let me finish.

“THAT BIRD WAS PROBABLY
KICKED OUT BY ITS MOTHER
AND IS GOING TO DIE.
AND IF YOU GET LICE,
I’M GOING TO KILL YOU.
PUT IT OVER THE WALL.”

I couldn’t.
Not because
I couldn’t give up the bird,
but because I couldn’t give up
that part of me.
The mother in me.
The only one I’ve got.

Not that I could verbalize any of that at the time. I said I’m not going to get lice. And we should be more worried about West Nile disease. But I had to save this fucking bird because I was fulfilling this specific purpose in life to have fucking birds land on my hands because I was raised on fucking Disney— the only thing I was really ever allowed to watch— and still fucking love Disney— maybe too much!— and hopefully— maybe!— one day these birds are going to fucking sing with me since I never got the fucking musical number around the town square.

“YOU MUST NOT REMEMBER
WHEN YOU HAD LICE, BUT I DO.
AND I’M NOT COMBING YOUR HAIR AGAIN.
STOP TRYING TO TAKE CARE
OF THINGS YOU CAN’T.
YOU NEED TO TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF.”

My face fell again,
and the fledgling flew off
beyond the roof lines.

---

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Author’s Note:

I know you’re not supposed to try to save or touch wild animals. If I didn’t know this, I would have already been sprayed by multiple skunks because they are absurdly adorable. I do not recommend anyone try to save or touch wild animals, and also do not recommend have delusions fueled by nostalgic Disney animation. There’s a good chance I should not have touched this bird, but I genuinely thought he was gonna roast and/or be ran over and honestly— spiritually— I needed this bird moment.

Thank you.