Heartsick

There are some mistakes "I'm sorry" just can't fix. 

One of Patrick's missions in life is to keep the grapevine growing.  The chatter starts flowing as he gets out of his truck when he arrives with a delivery from the feed store, and he was in fine form yesterday as he unloaded goat chow and chicken feed.  None of his gossip is malicious; he's a good kid, but he does love to talk.  Opening the gate to the hay section, I showed him the swallow's nest in the rafters.  There were not one, but two baby birds with their heads over the rim and mouths wide open.  Tiny little things with just a few tufts of feathers showing.  It was hot, and high cloud cover made it somewhat humid.  Patrick had already unloaded five hundred pounds of grain, and there were ten bales of alfalfa, each over a hundred pounds.  As he was bucking the alfalfa into the barn, I went to get him a cold soda; he'd earned it!  I noted he'd stacked the bales a little higher than I find convenient, but it was too hot to ask him to restack it.  Still talking a mile a minute, he finished up and drove away.  Patrick always makes me smile.

A short while later, I was walking out with Twenty-Two's afternoon bottles and glanced at the hay barn.  The thought struck that bales stacked that high might put the nest within reach of the cats.  I put the bottles down and went to move the alfalfa.  It was too late.  The entire nest had been pulled from the rafter and there was no sign of those dear little ones.  It's such a tiny tragedy in the grand scheme of life, but it could have been prevented.  I could hardly bear it at sundown, hearing the swallows calling as they swooped again and again into the barn.  No apology could ever be enough, but I am so, so sorry.