Where Did You Go, Olivia Uvalde?

Springs and springs of soil and seed

Greeted each thirteenth of May

In a city with a college known for a “The,”

It was quite the habit for the Mrs. and me!

Yet off we went each second Saturday

Of the month right after April,

For we were told, by a forecaster quite large and quite old,

There was no more frost coming, or so was foretold.

So, with the seats folded down, and no weather gambling to be found,

A nursery was our sure destination,

Where flowers and fertilizer, and backs that got sore

Would greet our bedroom pillows, so we need not return for more.

And sore was the word, from the trunk to the deck

With baskets from the garage to the deck as well,

To be filled with dirt for potting, blooms not meant for rotting, and

Shaking grow food on top to dwell.

We knew the habit, and the habit it was,

As baskets alternated with chimes

Up top near the ceiling of a front porch wide

And on the concrete floor, planting boxes covered with grime.

Nothing new yet, and maybe nothing to come

As watering, sun, and rain made their way.

Never too dry, but never too wet,

And moisture on just the leaves each day.

Some blooms blossomed, and some just died,

Like blooms from blooms before,

Yet this year’s harvest of fragrance and color

Would have a phenomenal surprise in store!

We could see it out our front window, the third basket from the right

Where young springling plants should be,

This was not a plant, not hardly I replied,

And with her wings and feathers, she’d definitely agree!

Right there in the middle of that hanging basket

A bird sat rocking her rump.

It was a mother bird, and a robin, at that

Too busy to scowl like a grump.

What is going on, the Mr. asked the Mrs.

Does she not see our beautiful flowers?

Out she peeks with her enormous beak

While the flowers were crying for showers.

And our new seedling did way more than rock,

We had much more in store.

Why, that robin was building a nest

With walls like a cottage door!

Since a new friend deserved a new friend name,

Olivia was the very best choice.

She was our niece from far away, but it was quite safe to say,

That young lady lacked a robin’s singing voice!

Day after day the preparations went on,

And Olivia the robin was never stopping:

Gathering for the walls, sitting on the egg,

While perpetually rocking so the egg wasn’t dropping.

This was quite the chore in a basket so small,

Eight or nine inches or so.

But there’s more to this task, Olivia would say if you asked.

There’s that watering can to the left, don’t you know!

Now in that can that looked like Farmer Pig—

Yep, that was a nest for finches!

In and out of the spout all dang day—

Those finches could use a few pinches!

They tried to come over and visit Olivia,

But she was no visiting mother.

Oh, she was aware, and would stare and stare

And then teach those finches a lesson like no other!

The Mrs. and I waited for days

For Olivia’s big day to come.

Yet that day seemed like it would never arrive,

And mother bird’s nest would soon be undone.

We missed our blooms, but somehow that spring,

Our wait for the little one really mattered.

It had been a long winter, and an even longer year,

With family memories lost forever and scattered.

Then it came out of nowhere

And after a wait of many days,

Olivia’s scavenging and rump shaking and rocking

Would show the wonder of her ways.

Olivia’s beak was very long, and the baby’s so very short.

How would this little one live?

Yet beak to beak, and cheek to cheek,

The mother bird continued to give.

She gave with her baby under her wings,

And she gave with gifts from her forest.

Well, it was just flying to our weeping elm

For food, with other birds supplying a chirping chorus.

And daddy bird? We saw him, too,

And we decided to name him Oscar.

As Olivia fed, Oscar chased

Mr. Raccoon far away, for he was a robin imposter!

So, who was the baby? The Mrs. and I weren’t sure

If the new one was a lady or a fellow.

A girl baby robin we would name Ophelia,

And a boy bird would be called Othello.

Ophelia or Othello, like potato or potahtoe,

It didn’t really matter much now,

For it grew so fast, and its feathers flowered at last,

That baby bird was ready to take a bow!

A bow would come soon, but flying would come first

When the Mrs. and I saw it acting like mom.

Flap them like that, first slow and then fast, and

Before you knew it, you’ll be off to the birdy prom!

We really don’t know where Oscar met Olivia

Or if robins have such formal birdy dances,

And sad to say, there came that day,

When there were no more robin romances.

We both looked and looked for hours on end,

But neither one was in the nest.

I placed the hanging basket back in the garage,

Where I saw the nest where the robins found their rest.

Another basket hangs outside now,

With impatiens of purple, white, and red.

It’s beautiful, to be sure, but summer now is not quite the same.

“Where’s Olivia?” I hear it forever said.

And that question’s not the only one,

As I asked the mother bird quite sadly

A last name question, that also had no answer,

So, I gave her the last name of Uvalde…

She was here one day, and gone the next

And so was her precious child.

Olivia did her mother bird job well, and then

Released her child into the wild.

Ophelia or Othello, or whoever the baby bird was,

Went out to do the best that it could.

Is it still there, is it still somewhere?

Olivia surely knew that it should.

Or could it be this, that in their nature of bliss,

Anything of harm is not there, and

When the real world comes, and life is unjust,

No one is there to say what is fair.

The Mrs. and I do not know where or when or why,

As a front porch sits with just chimes and flowers.

We still look for you, dear mother bird and child.

These are just sounds and blooms, but you are like twin towers.

Are you gone forever, like the news story says,

Olivia and child times nineteen,

Or have you traveled far, far away

To a place with thousands of miles in between?

And are you now in another hanging basket

With Othello or Ophelia now a father or mother?

And did Olivia come as a birdy granny to protect your nest,

Since there will never be another?

I ask the question over and again,

Though there may be no responder:

Where did you go, Olivia Uvalde?

I am getting worried, and there is little time to ponder.

Can you tell us very soon?

The Mrs. worries, too.

Is a mother bird and child bird alive and well somewhere?

We both wish we knew.

And we surely see that summer will pass,

As our chimes and blooms turn silent and grey.

All these things will join our empty nest soon

In a suburb’s garage and be put away.

This is our hope, that in another year’s spring

We will know the answer to this:

Where did you go, Olivia Uvalde,

And do your offspring know nature’s true bliss?

Only then will we look

To the third hanging basket from the right,

And say to each other, and to you, dear Olivia:

Thank you for letting us know, stay forever safe, and good night.