‘To Rest The Soul of A Hummingbird’

Emerson Little recently graduated with his MFA in Creative Photography & Experimental Media from California State University, Fullerton, and his BA in Digital Production from Whittier College. His artistic practice merges art and cinema, exploring liminal spaces with his camera that are both alive and dead.

To Rest The Soul of A Hummingbird

She’s careful not to tear the red plumage of a hummingbird painted on the back of a white envelope. The letter opener glides along the crease. It echoes like the sharp scissors cutting through yesterday’s vintage cotton fabric of a yellow peasant blouse. Her fingers guide out the folded paper. With a quick sigh, she unfolds the top layer, then comes undone the bottom one. In the body of the paper are black letters written in script, leaning to the right.  Her eyes squint to read as she walks to the cherry red wicker chair to sit down by the oblong window.  Spine elongates as she reads, Ma soeur Maude, if you have found this letter in the old mahogany trunk, then I must be dead. I hope you were the brave one who scattered my ashes by Willow Lake.  

Maude sniffs the letter, as if there would be a residue of her sister’s jasmine scented skin & hair.  Maude recalls the long hours they hid in the trunk as children giggling in the dark mustiness in the attic. She hasn’t been brave enough to scatter the ashes in twenty-one years. She would look over the living room mantel and notice the jade marble urn with rust in the perimeter of its metal fastening. How could she let all these years go by without fulfilling her sister’s wishes?  Each day that she grieved, she avoided the urn and thought, Someday, I will do it. 

At a glance, her tears rest in her eye sockets. Maude has avoided the tall trunk in the attic until this moment. Her auburn curly hair lifts from her face as the force of the breeze increases entering the room. For a moment, her purple skirt cradles the letter.  From the attic’s window she looks onto Willow Lake and her face brightens like a sunray. In her left hand she carries the letter and the envelope down the narrow stairs. Her pace quickens as she heads for the living room’s mantel to pick up the urn. Once more, tears dance in her eyes.  I’ve been selfish. Forgive me Feliza for all these years, she mumbles under her breath.  

Out of the house, her feet cut through thick grass, scratching her ankles and shins. Maude arrives at the lake and the aged willow tree.  She places the letter and envelope on the nook of its branch. Maude blesses the urn, May your soul finally rest and be free. She unfastens the jade-colored urn. The scent of jasmine rises up in the air.  She smiles at the gray ashes and begins to ceremoniously walk the perimeter of the lake.  The breeze blows the ashes effortlessly as she rocks the urn from side to side with each step. Maude’s chest rises and falls. Her rib cage feels spacious as soon as the urn is empty.  Behind her ear is the song of a bird. She turns her head to look; red plumage of a hummingbird whizzes above the letter.  

Jerrice J. Baptiste is a poet, author of nine books. Her most recent book titled, Coral in The Diaspora is published by Abode Press. She’s been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize by Jerry Jazz Musician 2024 & Abode Press 2025. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in One Art: Poetry Journal, Neologism Poetry, The Write Launch, The Banyan Review, Mantis, The Yale Review, Artemis Journal and hundreds of others.