Of sad geese and lingering grief

It's been nearly a year since my Dad died after an accident left him with a traumatic brain injury. In that time, I've learned a lot about him, about me, and about grief.

I woke Sunday morning to a sad sight.

Looking out our bedroom window to the nesting Mama goose below, I could tell something was off.

She was shuffling from one leg to the other as she peered into her nest while Papa goose was carefully using his beak, nudging around what looked to be the pair's eggs.

I remarked to a sleeping Weed: 'I think something got to the nest. It looks bad.'

His response: *Snore* 'What? Leave me alone I'm sleeping here.'

Quite the sympathetic ear.

So, I headed downstairs for a shot of espresso and a closer look at the nest through some binoculars. Sure enough. It looked destroyed and I thought I could see damaged eggs beside it.

Since Mama and Papa goose were still milling around and showing signs of distress, I waited before getting any closer to confirm my suspicions.

Eventually, the pair wandered away long enough for me to jog over to the nest and see their four eggs all busted up. I didn't see any signs of premature goslings, just broken eggs and the downy feathers Mama goose had used to carefully build her nest.

For hours, I wondered if the neighborhood fox or Pennywise the raccoon and her kits had gotten to the eggs. I even wondered if one of the anti-goose neighbors in our community might have taken things into their own hands.

Then, it started.

It no longer mattered how the eggs had been destroyed, the geese began honking, roaring, flapping their wings, shaking their heads, bellowing…Loudly.

The plaintive honks and roars have been sounding through the neighborhood for days. Yesterday, I tried to get through a Zoom meeting for work only to be disturbed by two sad geese beneath my office window assaulting and commiserating with another pair of sad geese.

It turns out, two goose nests were destroyed that same night and our neighborhood flock is grieving.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/7bd192_5e18dd45ea344892b92440633fcf3553/720p/mp4/file.mp4

[Video] Grieving geese are sad. And loud.

I know that sounds like I'm anthropomorphizing but I swear the flock is mourning. Research, a quick Google search, tells me geese do grieve. Since they bond with their partners for life, the death of a partner goose is devastating.

Additionally, because they are social beings living in pairs and large groups, they form strong bonds with their offspring. Mama geese start communicating with their goslings even while in the eggs.

When a gosling dies, the parents will search for it, calling out in distress. They also often refuse to leave the area where their young died.

I can confirm all of these behaviors. So, too, can my co-workers on that Zoom call.

Over the years that The Weed and I have lived in our goosy neighborhood, we have watched as bonded pairs parade their goslings by us to show off their babies. Proud birds are delightful.

I have watched Mama and Papa goose fight off a fox entirely too interested in their nest.

I have even seen one pair of geese fight with another pair, trying to steal their young gosling.

It's all been terribly interesting considering these flying poop machines really can be a nuisance. Still, knowing they grieve makes me feel so much more for them.

Later this month marks the one-year anniversary of my father's death after a bad accident left him with a brain injury, one no person really truly comes back from.

In the previous year, I have cried very little.

Still, I have laughed at memories of Dad.

I have been annoyed by the bureaucracy of settling an estate.

I have been worried about my Mom enduring her own grief.

Mostly, I have been heartened by the stories Mom tells me about Dad. Last week, as we stood in her kitchen, she handed me the smallest of glass A&W root beer mugs. She then told me it was from my first root beer float, back when A&W restaurants were everywhere and a real treat.

Mom said once I had finished my first float, Dad went inside the restaurant and bought the mug. 'I promise he didn't steal it. He could have pulled it right off the tray and put it in the glove box. Instead, he went inside and paid for it.'

It's anecdotes like these that have played through my mind this past year. Little memories I can call up or those Mom shares with me.

The last text message I sent Dad is saved on my phone. Ironically, it's a picture of Mama and Papa goose chasing the fox away from their nest last year.

Some days, I wish I could be more like a sad goose. Take in the grief. Process it. Honk, bellow, carry on. I'm not built like that.

So, having a flock filled with feelings outside my window this week has been tough, and loud, but it's the lingering grief that never seems to fly away.