. . . And yet the birdhouse will say something different about me:
it will say that I lived here. . . 

~ Excerpt from “Birdhouse,” by Tony Hoagland

Last evening I searched birdboxes online and found what I wanted at Ace Hardware. Frank and I woke up around the same time this morning, and first thing, he wished me a Happy Mother’s Day. For my daughter who is a mother, I had a photo album made for her and surprised her with that first thing. Then, for Mother’s Day, we went up to the pool and swam laps and had a long, moist talk in the steam room. This was the perfect way for us to start the day. She has not been swimming for quite a long time and I this was my gift to her; encouragement to get back in the pool. I didn’t spend hours in the yard, but I did do some yard work. Then Frank and I ran some errands to the hardware store where we purchased, among other things, the birdboxes I wanted. Then, while I finished planting my herb garden and some potted geraniums, Frank put the boxes up. My youngest came for dinner––take out! And after dinner, we all walked across the field to see my birdboxes by the river. Of course, my youngest had a bluebird sighting over the garden on the way. I had a flash of insight this afternoon while I was outdoors watering new grass and raking up old leaves and feeling the wind––so much wind!––stirring me up, and picking up stick after stick knocked out of the trees, I realized, I’m becoming my father. Because if he could be outdoors he was, and he loved his yard work and his planting and his tending. Mom was indoors, her kitchen, her knitting, her sewing. Today is also their wedding anniversary. Every seven years it falls on Mother’s Day. 1954. So, I thought of them, first thing, and texted all my brothers and sisters this reminder. It was so so chilly today; and the weekend they married was too. They honeymooned in my grandparents’ cottage at Laurel Lake in New Hampshire, and Dad always mentioned the chilliness of that time, and how they kept each other warm. Tony Hoagland’s poem about the birdhouse is wonderful. I’m so glad I found it tonight, for Mother’s Day and for my parents’ wedding anniversary and for the happy day of my new birdhouses on the Charles from my husband:

If I am no longer here for some reason,
I think you will still see me occasionally reflected
in the incessant activity of the birds
flying in and out of the birdhouse —

And, while I have been writing this, something unusual happened. I am in my bed under the quilt and Frank is downstairs in his meeting and my daughter who is the mom came in with her notebook and climbed in beside me. This is how Mother’s Day happens without any planning or fireworks.