Tsubame
by B.A. Mullin
A bird zoomed by my head and dove into her nest, a hole under the eave of my garage. She was in a hurry to feed her babies. There were five little chirpers in total, and each was singing loudly for its food. The mom fed one, then sped off, presumably to grab grubs for the others. This was her task for the day. Looked difficult.
It was March and I’d only been living in Japan for a few months, so finding out what type of bird was living outside my garage became a goal of mine. I filmed the mother and her babies and showed the video to friends and colleagues.
“It’s a tsubame,” (tsu-ba-me), a co-worker said, “In English, it’s barn swallow. They always show up around this time of year and usually build their nests in people’s doorways.”
He told me Tsubame nest for only a short time before flying away and people enjoy them for their singing. “We are nice to them because the birds bring us luck. The problem is, they also bring us their droppings.”
He was right. The mother and babies didn’t hold back on the mess, but their tweeting did, indeed, bring a little happiness to my life. I’d stop to watch the barn swallow show each day before entering my house after a long workday. While I stood there, I couldn’t help but smile.
One day, a little boy wandered over to my outside garage. The child was four years old at the most, and the little tyke wouldn’t take his eyes off the barn swallows. His grin was larger than mine.
I had felt weird about being entertained by a family of nesting swallows, but now a local was equally fascinated with the birds. Their singing was music to us both now. Their presence was a rarity, and we were lucky to witness the beauty. He giggled at the babies and reached up.
I didn’t know enough Japanese to communicate, but I understood his joy.
Where’s his mom or dad? I wondered, but just then his mother walked over from the nearby grocery store and picked him up. She held her son tight. I compared the closeness between her and her son with the relationship between the mother swallow and her babies in the nest. Both loved their young ones with their entire being and showed it with every gesture. Honest, genuine affection was a glorious sight to behold.
We exchanged smiles.
The mother pointed at the barn swallow and started talking. At first, I didn’t have a clue what she was telling her son. Then I recognized the word tsubame. She’d also mentioned something about luck and fortune.
Ah, the mother was telling her son what my colleague had told me. The boy watched the birds and pointed. The mother had him repeat the word tsubame a few times, teaching her son the correct pronunciation of the word.
That afternoon, I had the pleasure of sharing an unforgettable moment with this random mother and son as we watched the baby swallows guzzle the gift that was their selfless mother’s food.
A few days later, it was raining hard. I worried about the barn swallows and ran home after work to check on them. There they were, the mother’s wings spread over her nest to protect her young. I stood frozen in the pouring rain, in awe.
She curled up close to her babies. I could see one of them press its head against its mother’s chest. No different than when a child cuddles with its mom. It seemed to me that the barn swallows couldn’t get close enough to each other.
The next day the birds were gone.
The memories, though, will be with me forever.
B. A. Mullin or "BAM" received an undergraduate degree in creative writing from the University of Houston and a master's degree in TESOL from the University of Southern California. While teaching English in Japan, he's working on a PhD in Applied Linguistics at Temple University. BAM had a goal to have a story published from A-to-Z, and he did so with works such as Australians Invade Costa Rica (Lion and Lilac), Bar Buds (WriteOut Publishing), and Zeitgeist (HellBound Books). However, his passion is compiling the 42 Stories Anthology, publishing 1,764 works of other authors from around the world in one book.
It was March and I’d only been living in Japan for a few months, so finding out what type of bird was living outside my garage became a goal of mine. I filmed the mother and her babies and showed the video to friends and colleagues.
“It’s a tsubame,” (tsu-ba-me), a co-worker said, “In English, it’s barn swallow. They always show up around this time of year and usually build their nests in people’s doorways.”
He told me Tsubame nest for only a short time before flying away and people enjoy them for their singing. “We are nice to them because the birds bring us luck. The problem is, they also bring us their droppings.”
He was right. The mother and babies didn’t hold back on the mess, but their tweeting did, indeed, bring a little happiness to my life. I’d stop to watch the barn swallow show each day before entering my house after a long workday. While I stood there, I couldn’t help but smile.
One day, a little boy wandered over to my outside garage. The child was four years old at the most, and the little tyke wouldn’t take his eyes off the barn swallows. His grin was larger than mine.
I had felt weird about being entertained by a family of nesting swallows, but now a local was equally fascinated with the birds. Their singing was music to us both now. Their presence was a rarity, and we were lucky to witness the beauty. He giggled at the babies and reached up.
I didn’t know enough Japanese to communicate, but I understood his joy.
Where’s his mom or dad? I wondered, but just then his mother walked over from the nearby grocery store and picked him up. She held her son tight. I compared the closeness between her and her son with the relationship between the mother swallow and her babies in the nest. Both loved their young ones with their entire being and showed it with every gesture. Honest, genuine affection was a glorious sight to behold.
We exchanged smiles.
The mother pointed at the barn swallow and started talking. At first, I didn’t have a clue what she was telling her son. Then I recognized the word tsubame. She’d also mentioned something about luck and fortune.
Ah, the mother was telling her son what my colleague had told me. The boy watched the birds and pointed. The mother had him repeat the word tsubame a few times, teaching her son the correct pronunciation of the word.
That afternoon, I had the pleasure of sharing an unforgettable moment with this random mother and son as we watched the baby swallows guzzle the gift that was their selfless mother’s food.
A few days later, it was raining hard. I worried about the barn swallows and ran home after work to check on them. There they were, the mother’s wings spread over her nest to protect her young. I stood frozen in the pouring rain, in awe.
She curled up close to her babies. I could see one of them press its head against its mother’s chest. No different than when a child cuddles with its mom. It seemed to me that the barn swallows couldn’t get close enough to each other.
The next day the birds were gone.
The memories, though, will be with me forever.
B. A. Mullin or "BAM" received an undergraduate degree in creative writing from the University of Houston and a master's degree in TESOL from the University of Southern California. While teaching English in Japan, he's working on a PhD in Applied Linguistics at Temple University. BAM had a goal to have a story published from A-to-Z, and he did so with works such as Australians Invade Costa Rica (Lion and Lilac), Bar Buds (WriteOut Publishing), and Zeitgeist (HellBound Books). However, his passion is compiling the 42 Stories Anthology, publishing 1,764 works of other authors from around the world in one book.
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