Spring arrived early in March of 2012 but the dawn hours of my home no longer woke me up as before. A distinct harmony of musical calls would often stir my consciousness at the streaming of the first sunlight rays. But in absence of this familiar serenade, I continued with my fragmented sleep for much longer, shielding the bedroom window with enough curtains to convince myself that sunrise hadn’t happened yet.

In small-town Maine, we possessed a tendency of starting early during this season and diving right into the interactions that outdoor surroundings had in store: from raking in blueberry fields to rolling on mud-laden roads where red signages read ‘Heavy Load Limited’. Perhaps, it is the strangest possible experience to have when your home no longer feels the same upon returning, and the scraps of your memory behave like melting glaciers on the verge of collapse. I had returned to the town of Bar Harbour after six long years and realised that the sounds of my home were gradually disappearing.

My eyes were never accustomed to proximity. Since the age of six, when Father began to take me out to the ocean side for bathing in evening sunsets, I developed this habit of standing 20 Birds Wake Me Up much farther away from him to put that precious vision into focus for my eyes. Father was not yet aware of my eye condition, and so for him it was a naive gratitude by a child for the inconceivable present. To be honest, in part it was like that, as my mind was no less engulfed by the beauty that shaped the landscape of Bar Harbour. A spectrum of reds and yellows acted as identifiable streaks of brushstrokes for a cloudless sky.

As I grew older, Father and I delved into many more such experiences during the brief summer season, such as the long weekend drives through wide agricultural fields or quiet barbecues near rock-bound coast. As a child, I loved soaking in the smell of fresh cut hay and the aroma of balsam fir trees and the salty air in the oceanic breeze. Outdoor activities were not the most enchanting for Mother though, she rather cherished her peaceful time inside the neighbourhood and ran a dedicated physical therapy centre to aid both old and young. Our neighbourhood was a mixed community of relaxed elders, youthful couples and nature-loving children. It was a small town so everyone knew everyone. Community gatherings, church ceremonies and joint suppers were a regular affair. But no matter what corner of the town you were, time always stood still for my small island-like home.

It is true that I was an odd, solitary child with huge spectacles and a baggage full of eccentricities. While most children in the neighbourhood engaged in skiing and snowmobiling during winters, I simply preferred lying in the snow in my snowsuit and gazing at the orange leaves falling from a pine tree. Despite being sensitive and volatile around people, I did end up finding some warmth in the company of locals, especially during the bird walks at Acadia National Park. Father was a serviceman at the park and joyously guided a group of enthusiastic neighbours through the woodlands and granite peaks on Sunday mornings. Entangled with oscillating binoculars, the neighbours would stay vigilant to every imperceptible disturbance. In early mornings, a flock could 21 Birds Wake Me Up bounce into view anytime. Standing next to Father, the ten-year-old me was much less concerned with catching the sight of creatures and focused more on the energy into hearing the soft ripples of sound. A soft buzz, a lyrical cadence of falling notes or a sweet tinkling melody. Those were not human sounds, and for me they were far more alluring. Their vibrations carried unfamiliar emotions; a language rich in patterns. I’d hear them much before anyone else and then lightly pull the coat of Father to signal the presence of a bird.

Although my ears were always delicately susceptible to sounds beyond human range, it was only during the early adolescence that my parents began to notice the heightened effects of such an inborn condition. Aside from attending school and spending evenings with family, I’d spend most of my time alone, exploring either the large garden area in the backyard or the woodland trail leading to the National Park. In my hand, I’d carry a small sketchbook. Through the warm, humid habitats, I calmly awaited for the right cues—a whispering call, a courtship song, a trill of rising and falling notes—and then went about catching the disturbance in my reverberating mind. Accumulating all the attention to grasp a single sound was my first lesson in patience. My fingers would calmly flip the pages of my sketchbook and begin to doodle a structure of images in response to a particular bird sound. With no words for translation, I heavily relied on my ability to put down messy yet unique forms of scribbles to distinguish one bird call from another. My doodle patterns were of great variety: smooth spirals, travelling waves, dotted lines. That is how I remembered a new bird; after all, in open areas you do not get to glimpse these lives in flat, absolute visuals. Species like warblers flick away before you could even blink an eye, while swifts never truly descend to the ground. If you were fortunate enough, then at times it is possible to spot one acrobatic siskin hanging upside down on treetops to pluck loosely attached seeds.

I learned to identify birds in pieces, through glimpses of plumage pigments, shape of wing-bar, position of flight and the timbre of vocalisation. Those transient encounters proved to be enough for a fervent childhood discovery as I unearthed this fascinating non-human world of birds bustling in the present moment before me. In our neighbourhood, spring was associated with a whole bouquet of traditions. To celebrate the plumping undergrowth of life after long, dark winters, adults would host delicious bean suppers while children gathered in parks to look out for the first migratory robins that entered the deciduous forests of east. It was usually the male robins that arrived two weeks early to mark their territories. Everyone in my school eagerly pointed their binoculars to the sky as tidal waves of bright orange spread all over the pores. And unlike most of my schoolmates, I kept myself secluded in a corner to instead listen closely to the mumbled chuckles of robin flocks transmitting through that long aerial voyage. Their musical song of ten whistles, rising and falling in pitch but steady in rhythm, were an indication that spring had finally blossomed through Bar Harbour.

Back at the neighbourhood, Mother had this ritual of leading the preparation for supper meals at community church. In an orderly church kitchen, she stirred a palatable mesh of yellow and black beans that simmered in a big roasting pan, releasing clouds of molasses flavoured steam that drifted into the nearby well-lit dining area. Up to my teenage years, I was oblivious to the experience of walking in the woods during winters. Being physically weak and prone to sickness, Mother took great precautions with me at this time of year and gave very limited allowance for outdoor roaming. Although winters were often unpredictable in their arrival, our home would be stuffed with enough firewood, vegetables and lobsters for sustenance. Father still had to report for work, snow-laden roads were no excuse for rest to him. He’d come home early and take charge of climbing our roof to shovel out the daily accumulation of snow laminas.

Over a period of time, my body eventually learnt to thrive in the comfort of cold. At the age of fourteen, I lied to Mother by taking permission for a short garden visit in the backyard and actually went for an independent, aimless walk in the woods. I waded through the frosty woodlands with oak and pine trees having their leaves replaced with thick deposits of snow. My boots sank into dead leaves, and it was one of those windless days where the sound of twigs breaking underfoot echoed like an apprehensive squeak. A network of resilient fungi stitched together living roots, idle droppings and orphaned leaves. Years later, after my return to the town in early springtime, I found myself strolling through the same woods and absorbing a sensory experience that felt no different from that first lonely winter trail of my life. The only difference being that of the weather, with heated and dry winds now taking over the frosty smog of the past. I had never noticed such drastic temperature swings in my hometown, until some of the remaining, old neighbours in our area informed me how this has become a common phenomenon in the last few years.

That day, any signs of life resisted communication, even the scurry of small terrestrial insects that often got buried under a riot of birdsongs. Looking further into the horizon, one could only witness a timeless period being transformed into burnt ashes of spruce, maple and willow trees. A devastating forest fire, erupting in the January of the same year, dissolving most of the sounds that were inseparable to the living realm of woods, and leaving behind bare fossils of once thriving landscape. My head went through a severe headache after coming back from the woodland walk. I threw my jacket at one of the displaced couches in the hall and went straight to my bedroom for a nap. A disquieting glimpse into the wrath of recent fires was enough to nauseate my thoughts for several weeks. More importantly, it was a painful reminder of deaths that I did not witness, an outpouring of grief that was associated with the loss of two loved ones who were the greatest custodians of the small world that I could call home. Mother and Father were gone when I was living away from my home in search of purpose. And the insurmountable forces of nature did not spare their lives long enough for me to share this space with them again.

As a child, I enjoyed governing my daily schedule with certain personal rituals. One of such rituals was me coming back home after school and slightly leaning at the edge of the kitchen walls to peer at Mother cooking in her red and white apron. A stubborn disturbance coiled my veins until I’d see her in front of me. On one of the early weekdays, I returned from school and failed to find Mother in the kitchen. I barged into every room of the house like an unhinged beast, a mild unexpected change at home often led to throbbing pulses through my nerves. I ran outside towards the backyard garden, flowers were sprouting but appeared dead to my senses. A little later, Mother opened the door and saw my sweating, anxious face, “Celestine, what’s wrong?” I rushed at her and tightly hugged her waist. “I was scared you weren’t in the kitchen,” I muttered. “Sorry honey, I had an appointment with Ms Jones for physiotherapy,” she said gently. I pressed my head harder on her waist, recovering from a sudden panic in a twirl of an afternoon. When we went inside the house to have lunch, I sat next to Mother’s mahogany kitchen table and asked her something that struck my mind like a beetle sting. “Mom, what if I leave this place someday? My friend, Andrew, moved out of town yesterday with his family. He doesn’t live here anymore, and it feels very strange everywhere…in school, in our neighbourhood. I thought things never changed for our hometown, mom.” “Things always change, honey. Someday you might have to leave too, for your studies and work.” “But I don’t want to leave. This is home, right?” My voice unexpectedly stuttered. “But it will be different when you grow up and it’s a big world outside. You have to learn, work, see new places! And don’t worry, this will always be home so you can come back.”