Disappearances Karin Lin-Greenberg (bio) i Every afternoon, my landlord, who owns the duplex we both live in, throws birdseed and unshelled peanuts off her back deck onto the lawn below. Moments later, birds appear. Some days there are blue jays. Some days there are sparrows. Some days there are mourning doves. And some days there are northern flickers, woodpeckers who, strangely, peck at the ground with their sharp beaks. Northern flickers usually eat ants and beetles dug from the earth, but perhaps they, like many of the animals who frequent the large, grassy backyard, can't resist the buffet of seeds and nuts. When I peer out the window, it looks as if the backyard is being overtaken by flocks of birds. Yet scientists say birds are disappearing. They say there are three billion fewer birds in North America than there were in 1970. The birds who've been disappearing—a euphemism, of course, for dying off—are common, ordinary, the kinds of birds that appear in the backyard to peck at my landlord's offerings. Because many species of birds seem so prevalent, people don't even realize the birds are disappearing; they don't realize there's a crisis at hand. After all, how often do we even notice what's not there? ii Several years ago, one of my English Department colleagues passed away. I can't honestly say we were friends, but perhaps we could have been if we'd had more time together. Some afternoons, during my office hours, she'd stop by my office and sit in one of the red chairs my students sit in during conferences. We'd talk for a while about ordinary things, like our pets or what we did over the weekend. I've always been nervous about stopping into other people's offices, worried I'm disturbing their work, so I rarely do. But I was always glad when my colleague came in and spent some time talking with me. [End Page 36] Now, there is always a reminder of her when I'm at work. When I press the scanner function on the copy machine in the faculty lounge, a grid of small boxes with last names in each box appears on the screen. Press one of the boxes, and the scanned material is sent to that person's e-mail inbox. The square with my name is next to the square with my colleague's name. No one has removed her name, even three years after her death, so every time I scan stories and essays and poems I see her name. Some nights, when I'm at work late and am the only one remaining on the hallway, I go to scan something for the next day's classes and see her last name next to mine and feel a small wave of sadness. Often, when I stand by the photocopier, the lights in the lounge—controlled by motion sensors—shut off, and I'm plunged into darkness. I stand still in the shadowy room, the only sound the copier churning, and think how a photocopier in a dark room is such a strange site of remembrance. iii Before my landlord started feeding the birds in the backyard, she fed other animals in our front yard. During the day, she put piles of cut-up apples on the lawn, and deer and wild turkeys came. Each night, she threw hot dogs and fluffy white buns onto the front lawn, and gray foxes and raccoons appeared. Often, my husband and I looked out an upstairs window and watched the animals below, lit by the dim porch lights. They ate the hot dogs and buns, a meal I could not help but think was so far removed from food actually found in nature. Sometimes the raccoons would hiss and threaten other raccoons, but the raccoons and foxes ignored each other, contentedly chewing like diners in a restaurant, strangers seated at adjacent tables. Then the baby raccoons, the kits, arrived. They were balls of fluff with tiny feet. The two kits would follow their mother toward the duplex, grab food in their jaws, and then, with pieces...
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