Aviary

“The blue jays need sunflower seeds,” he gurgles, his rigid, wing-like arm shaking.

“Rest, Dad,” I say. The blue jays hopped around his steel feeder, twelve years ago, before his final move.

“Martha,” he wheedles, “chocolate milkshake.” Martha is a shared grief, called for in
dark hours; in a flutter of a curtain I sometimes hear her response.

I place two ice chips into his mouth—his milkshake.

Christmas lights flash on his potted evergreen. I long for a journey to Bethlehem, for waters of repentance. His eyes find me, but he likely sees a nuthatch or a circling hawk.

 

Art Credit: Stephen Butler