HUMMINGBIRDS IN WINTER
When Texas froze over, with power failures across the state, my mother boiled water—not just for herself, but for two companions: a pair of Rufous Hummingbirds.
Every day, during my time visiting over Christmas, the little birds flew to the bright plastic flowers and fed on the sugar water she’d so diligently prepared. A small part of normalcy in an all too abnormal world, I could trust the birds to keep my parents company while I was hundreds of miles away.
When we lived in Oregon, and every summer was spent with doors and windows wide open, we’d find hummingbirds stuck in our skylight. Buzzing wildly like blossoming beetles, I’d try to catch them with a net, hoping not to damage their delicate little wings. But as soon as they escaped into the open air, they zoomed out of sight, the moment already miles behind them.
Hummingbirds are resilient, but to keep their tiny hearts pulsing at 1,260 beats a minute, they need a constant supply of nectar. For nectar, you need flowers, and for flowers, you need warmth. In lieu of all those things, you need my mother: the most gifted green thumb I’ve ever known.
Typically, Rufous hummingbirds have the longest migration routes of their kind, traveling up to 3,000 miles to winter-over in Mexico. But these two stragglers had stayed behind, basking in the Texas sun of my parents’ backyard until the weather turned, and the state saw its coldest temperatures in decades. While millions of homes lost heat and power, a crisis intensified by our already crippling pandemic, my mother focused on the hummingbirds—in isolation, this was one thing she could help.
Every few hours without fail, she checked that the hummingbird feeders were full and defrosted, topping them off with fresh sugar water whenever necessary. She recorded every sighting of the two birds, noting their movements and size. There was something so desperate and heartbreaking to see them zip between the snowflakes, hide under the eaves, bristle and puff up their feathers in the frost.
Then, no sightings for days. When Friday came, only one hummingbird visited the feeder: the female. After feeding, she zoomed away, and the next day, the weather began to warm. Electricity returned, though the boil notice remained. My mother assessed the damage to her garden, and lifting a tarp, she found the male Rufous hummingbird, unmoving. Cradling his small body, she hoped in the warmth he would spring back to life. It’s strange to see something so animated lying so still. But after a day of waiting, he didn’t budge.
On that same day, we found out that half a million lives have been lost to COVID-19. Human beings can't process numbers like 500,000. At a certain point, the weight of each life lessens as the number grows. Yet the impact of this little hummingbird was enough to make it all come crashing down, and my heart hurt for hers.
At times like this, it’s important to remember that winter doesn’t last forever. As the ice melted, my mother caught sight of the elusive female hummingbird, flying through the air. Maybe she was hightailing it south to warmer pastures, beckoned by her natural instinct. Or maybe she’d found a new home on her own. But the sight of her still thriving was one of resilience and hope—both things we needed more than we knew.