ROBIN EGGS are warm and comforting. It might be their color, or tiny size, or maybe what they represent – new beginnings. For me, they are a means of time travel, an instant journey back to a 10-year old me.
I GREW UP
on a vineyard. Each spring, my brothers and I would grab our little
notepads and, in my organized manner even back then, traverse the rows,
searching for birds' nests. We very carefully peeked into each vine,
documenting each find, and then following the progress of each nest
until, at last, all the baby birds flew away.
SOME EGGS
didn't hatch, while others were eaten by small mammals or other birds.
And it always broke my heart to scribble, "Dead hatchling– not strong
enough." Occasionally we got to see the parents feed worms or bugs to
the babies. It was so exciting I couldn't sleep some nights.
SOON
the nests were empty, and we moved on to new adventures. We ditched our
notepads and found other ways to amuse ourselves, not giving nests
another thought – until the next year, when it would seem like just the
best idea all over again.