Buster
This morning, outside with my coffee, I looked for Buster.
Buster was a gold finch that Chris and I would see at our feeder regularly, usually as we sat at the kitchen table over toast and coffee. After we bought a house in Champaign in the summer of 2006, we were happy to populate our new backyard with feeders, creating our own bird sanctuary. I was so thankful to finally gain outdoor space. There is a special kind of peace that comes from watching birds.
It was Chris’s notion to name the gold finch Buster. It was a strange choice – not particularly unique or clever – but it fit the pert little bird. Naturally, there were probably many Busters. Gold finches certainly aren’t rare in the Midwest in summer. Many visited our kitchen window, but Chris was certain he knew which one was Buster. Even the next year, with the return of spring, Chris called out one day, “Buster’s back!” And who knows? Maybe Buster really did come back each year.
But we didn’t get many years at that house to find out. Less than two years later, Chris died suddenly, with no warning, of cardiac arrest. My shock was paralyzing, my panic attacks were debilitating, my grief ever-present. But still, the birds came, and family members would help me with the seemingly silly task of refilling feeders. Living much of the next few months at my parents’ home in Kansas, I would spend much time just gazing out their dining room window at their own feeders – orioles, brown thrashers, mourning doves, sparrows, finches. Again, there is a special kind of peace that comes from watching birds.
But there was no Buster. And before the next summer, I had sold the house in Champaign.
Now, a dozen years after Chris’s death, my life has seen much change. I have moved, met new people, married again, started and ended a career, started a business, and even returned to teaching. I have moved into another new home, and I have set up my feeders again. I have not lived where I can easily have a bird sanctuary since Champaign, so my return to the peace of birds is long overdue. Especially now, as our world plummets into the pandemic and finds us more and more isolated from each other, the birds offer us an easy grace and attention to the present. Much like Chris offered those of us who knew and loved him. Had he lived to see this time, he would have been calm and steady, perhaps even cracking several wry jokes about the situation. And he would have looked for Buster again this spring.
So, as I sat outside this morning, on the anniversary of Chris’s death, I looked for Buster. And wouldn’t you know, not one but three gold finches flew right up and started sparring around the feeder. Their insistent tee-yees sounded throughout the yard, making me smile. So small and so mighty. Who knows which one was Buster, but I’m sure Chris would have known him immediately.
