Natasha The Hummingbird

Natasha lives inside my head, right in front. She has not had enough sleep, and she’s got big plans. She’s tapping her foot lightning fast and chewing on my lips. She is a pain in my ass.

I have important things to do, but this over caffeinated humming bird is flying full force against the window in my forehead. She slams her body against my skull over and over again, believing she can actually fly out of my head. She’s captive in there and can’t stand it. If my head were a yacht, she’d steal a tiny jet ski, then bolt off the back like some immortal character in a loud movie about jewel heists or political espionage.

And even if she really could find a tiny jet ski, she’d screw it up. Once in the water she’d immediately think of something she left on the boat, then slide off the water rocket with the motor running and the keys in the ignition. She’d swim back to the boat but then, before reaching the deck ladder she’d see a flash of silver in the water and follow it down to a cave which she’s certain is filled with sunken treasure.

When she got to the cave and found no treasure she’d cry. She’d mourn deeply the loss of time and energy invested in this poorly planned quest. As she floated, not moving, I’d have a split second to pet her exhausted iridescent little head. I’d tell her I’m sorry this happened, again. I’m so sorry that she’s so tired. I’d gently scoop her up and pull her out of the cave, out of the water. Little waterfalls would pour through my fingers and my beautiful humming bird would sputter and flutter her pinkish blue eyelids.

As she looked up at me, she’d instantly recognize the cinematic potential of this moment and begin a b-grade actress performance of the near drowned ingénue in the strategically torn swimsuit. She’d arch her tiny back while stealing looks at me to see if I’m impressed.

I started breakfast at some point this morning. But instead of watching the skillet, I’ve been following Natasha. She’s far more interesting. Now the eggs are ruined. I can’t blame Natasha. She’s a humming bird. I have to blame someone. I blame myself.

Natasha has four thousand suggestions for an alternate breakfast. She also has twelve deep theories for why I cannot stop watching her, following her, rescuing her. Of course her favorite is that she is so riveting, so beautiful, so talented and so important that I simply have no choice.

You should see her nest. While other birds methodically collected appropriate building materials for a proper nest, Natasha drew plans for her glow in the dark bowling alley. While other birds wove the wispy veins of decomposed leaves into a sturdy foundation, Natasha hastily picked up a few bulky twigs and tied them together with bits of trash. She didn’t have the patience to remove the trash before she began building. But the shredded grocery bags and beer caps proved quite handy so she called herself “resourceful” and called their inclusion “art.”

At two thirds done, she had a vision. In a dream state, she saw the ornamental potential of the half woven house, and changed direction in mid construction. Now the floppy wreath of bread bag twisties and cat hair will become a crown, rightfully identifying her as the power behind my brilliance.

So, flying awkwardly under the weight of her bulky crown, she zooms back to the perch behind my forehead. Once there, she sees my botched breakfast, and she gets an idea. She lunges back to the kitchen. I am terribly excited to see what she’ll do, so of course I follow.

Back in the kitchen she directs me to empty the entire pantry in search of a specific jar of tangerine marmalade that I swiped from a fantasy restaurant at a gaudy resort in Mexico. I loved that trip. That’s where I discovered that every thing is better with lime juice and salt. She heard my thoughts, and shrieked. New plan! Now we’re going for a stunning platter of papaya and jicima and pineapple sprinkled with lime and salt.

Natasha flies out of the pantry at warp speed, hitting my head on the cupboard on the way out.

While slicing jicima, I slowly notice that my head really, truly hurts from the whacking it took as it followed Natasha on her manic quest for the perfect breakfast.

The pain in my head is strong. The rhythmic throbbing of the bell tower in which Natasha lives is so severe that even she must hunker down. She lowers her center of gravity for each blow. This bump needs ice, and I need aspirin. These two tasks are difficult because my skull is swelling. And because, despite all my rushing and effort, I haven’t actually eaten anything yet.

What do I do? How did my day begin like this? Where did I put the aspirin the last time I used it? What am I going to do about food? Why can’t I just focus on one thing at a time?

From her corner, still bracing herself against the throbbing, Natasha perks up and whispers, “I have an idea!!!!!” She convinces me that I’ll feel better if we buy art supplies. I’m sure we’ll pass a coffee shop on the way so I can pick up a muffin and I think there’s a drug store on the way and aspirin is cheap and now that I think of it, I need some wire from the hardware store.

Natasha is already flying full force, slamming her little body against the windshield in my forehead. According to her we should have already gone and come back. She is designing a spreadsheet program that will help me stay organized. She’s found a Sharpie and is already scribbling on the walls of my skull.

On the way to the bank Natasha falls asleep. I am alone for the first time today. I am sitting in traffic wanting nothing more than to be home at my table, quietly eating a hot breakfast and reading a book. Natasha wakes up and reminds me to stop at the library. No -- the bookstore. There’s a coffee shop there. And she wants a book about Mexican gardens.