Feather The Nest

I can vividly remember growing up in the rolling hills of Ferrara.

I would wake up with the misty mornings, and find myself frolicking amidst the pear trees as my dad frantically called for me.

"Abate Fetel!" he would yell. To him, I was a princess. I was the center of his world. I had become "the queen". I was the last breath of his first love which had been a whirlwind romance between himself and an American foreigner.

He loved to tell me stories about her, his queen. She was a beauty that was unmatched. She had hair like golden silk that would flow like the Canal di Burana, and eyes that would make aquamarine faint in envy. Dad worshipped mom like she was the air he breathed.

I always wondered what she looked like, but dad never kept pictures of her up. He said it was better for me to remember her as dad described- a glorious goddess. The only inkling of her physical presence I had was notepads full of her oil paintings.

There were many. Most were beautiful landscapes that depicted the lush vibrant countryside of Ferrara, some were of my father, and others were cute baby versions of me. I guess she was really good at knowing me before she even saw me. Dad always said it seemed like she could predict the future. From betting on the pear harvest being a large export to guessing my likeness before I even entered into the world.

My favorite was the oil painting of a breeding pair of Spotted Flycatchers. The grey, small birds were adamantly protecting one small egg. Its shell was off-white with mottled brown splattered all over. Dad said that mom always loved these birds because they were fiercely protective of their young. He even said that like mom, these birds could recognize their own fledgling before they hatched and would spend hours upon hours making sure that they were safe in the egg. They could even differentiate between their own egg and the parasitic eggs of the Cuckcoo.

It's what got me into birds, that painting. It was as if mom left a little bit of her hobby behind for me to pick up, and I pounced on it. It's why I loved scouring the pear orchards for birds in the morning much to dad's dismay.

But thanks to mom, I was thriving.

I learned about a bunch of local birds, and through it, also connected online. I was able to learn about the starlings and how invasive they were in America, how Cuckoo's were not the only parasitic bird, and that some birds give themselves what's called an "ant bath".

I even learned where I got my name. Mom, from the moment she knew I was entering the family, wanted to name me Lark. Dad never explained why but based on her oil paintings and research I have done it became rather obvious.

Their call was beautiful, distinct, and unique. Despite the woody, restrained coloring of most Lark species, they sang with such unadulterated beauty. It made me feel deeply connected to my mother and grateful she associated me with such quiet strength.

I dreamed of traveling the world one day. My father encouraged me to leave the nest multiple times. Sometimes, it even felt as if he were forcefully kicking me out of the tree. Each time though, when I fell, he would pick me back up. There was something comforting about home that I was afraid to leave. My home, my heart, my foundations were here.

A part of me yearned for something more, I wanted to know what my father knew. I wanted to be caught up in the whirlwind my mother was infamous for.

So when I laid the plane tickets out on the table, I embraced my father. We cried. He pulled a box from the drawer of my mom's things, and placed it in my hand. I opened it, and a sterling silver feather gleamed with the rising sun.

"I hope this helps you feather your own nest, my sweet, Abate Fetel ."

(If you are interested in hearing Lark calls, you can click here to listen to a YouTube video.)