By Caroline Warner
Every year, this day shows up
and I have to pretend that grief
isn’t pitting me like an olive.
The earth unfurls itself in magnolia
branches full of crisp white flowers
and feverish crimson birds,
and there are so many things
I have to tend to among the living —
so many messages to reply to and
appointments to keep — so I have to pretend
I’m not preoccupied with the feeling
that each visit I make to the past
is dissolving the parts of you I have left.
But the brown bird you sent
to my window in the hour of your death
is still beating her wings into the ether,
holding herself forever in my periphery.
After work, I’ll pause over at the park
to share the crumbs of a pastry with her
as she dances skittishly at my feet.
I’ll imagine myself at the end of my own life,
lifting her into my palms, kissing her,
telling her I’m ready to go.
For now, I’ll walk myself home
wrapped in the silky gauze of memory,
your laughter ringing through the years
like the song of a sparrow.
Caroline Warner is a writer and editor based in Boston, where you can often find her birdwatching in the Common. You can also find her on Twitter @carolinexwarner
