Kerri's Sanctuary

I stood there. Looking down at my backyard. Perched on the top step leading up to my sunroom, I watched everything happening below me like I was standing outside of my own life for a second. My mother was sitting cautiously, watching my daughter’s every move, ready to lend a hand if she needed it. It was like her arms were wings wrapped around us — both of us — all of us.

It was Memorial Day, a day to remember the fallen, and although my stepdad wasn’t able to hang onto his breath long enough to be here today, there was this moment by the flowers where I came face to face with a hummingbird and I knew.

I just knew.

It hovered there longer than it should have, so small and fast and impossible, its wings moving like a secret. It came close enough that I stopped breathing for a moment, close enough that the whole yard went quiet around me even though it wasn’t quiet at all. There were kids laughing, the grill roaring, people talking, plates being passed, water splashing somewhere behind me, but for that one second, all I could see was the hummingbird.

And I thought of him.

I thought of how strange it is that someone can be gone and still somehow arrive. Not in the way we want. Not walking through the gate or sitting in a chair or asking what’s on the grill. But in a flash of wings. In a flower moving. In the feeling that settles over your body when you suddenly know you are not as alone as you thought.

My husband stood at the piping hot grill, up to 700 degrees, flipping burgers and hot dogs and checking on the assortment of vegetables I covered in foil — potatoes, carrots, asparagus, garlic, and onions. He kept lifting the foil carefully, letting the steam rush out, calling over his shoulder every now and then to ask if anything looked done enough yet, as if this was just any ordinary cookout.

Some kids were covering rocks in an assortment of paints I had laid out for them on the old blue and white checkered blanket we kept for days like this. Days in the sun having free fun — free-dom. The kind of fun that did not require tickets or reservations or a plan. Just paint, rocks, grass, sun, and enough space for children to spread themselves out and become busy with their own little worlds.

This was worth it.

Worth all the years of worry and doubt. Worth the moments I wondered if we would ever get to a day like this. A day where my mother could sit in my yard and watch my daughter. A day where my husband could stand at our grill, feeling relaxed enough not to worry about the morning rush to work. A day where kids could paint rocks on an old blanket and I could stand on the steps of the sunroom looking down at the life I had been trying so hard to build for so long.

Yes, it was worth the waiting. Worth the fear. Worth the nights I had to believe in a future that had not given me enough evidence yet. Worth every time I had to keep going when I was tired of keeping going. Worth every version of myself that had to make decisions, make plans, cancel plans, make phone calls, make things work, make life feel okay even when I wasn’t sure it was.

And even though it was worth taking the time to take some photos, I decided not to.

Not because I didn’t want to remember the moment, but because I didn’t want to intrude upon it. I didn’t want to reach for my phone and turn it into something I would look at later. I wanted to be inside of it while it was happening.

I wanted to actually feel it.

The hot air around the grill. The sweat dripping down my husband’s face as he stood there flipping burgers and hot dogs like this was just a regular family cookout and not the exact life I used to close my eyes and wish for. The scent of the sweet flower the hummingbird had been feeding from still floating in the air. The water from the pool. The sunscreen on my daughter’s skin. The faint smell of smoke from the grill mixing with garlic and onions and summer grass.

My mom’s scent, the scent that usually stayed in Florida, was here now. In my backyard. Here, beside my daughter. Here, under the same sky as me.

I wanted to see all of it. Hear all of it. Taste all of it. Feel all of it. Smell all of it.

The laughter. The plates. The rocks drying in the sun with bright paint on them. The sound of kids moving in and out of the yard like little bursts of wild energy. The grill opening and closing. My mother’s voice. My husband calling out to ask who wanted what. My daughter being safe enough to be watched, loved, helped, and free all at the same time.

I watched my mother reach her hand out just slightly when my daughter shifted, not touching her right away, just ready. That kind of ready only mothers and grandmothers know how to be. Close enough to catch, far enough to let her try. And something about that made my throat tighten, because maybe that was what I had been wanting all along.

Nothing perfect or fancy. Not a picture of a life that looks good on social media.

Just this.

A yard full of noise, food cooking, and children making messes. The whole day held together by heat, flowers, smoke, paint, water, joy, safety, and love. I stood there and let the moment happen without trying to capture it. Because for once, I wasn’t waiting for life to begin. Life was happening all around me.

In this moment.

And for a second, I wondered if the hummingbird had been watching us the whole time.