There were chickadees at the bird feeder the morning after you died.
They didn’t seem to mind the paramedics, the whirl and flash of the ambulance lights, the police officers assuring me the autopsy results would allow some measure of peace.
They like the sunflower seeds, those chickadees.
The rest they just push aside.
I wanted to hold them in my palm, cup them close to the aching emptiness of my chest, those soft little puffs of black and white.
I wanted to break all their bones, to feel them vanish beneath me. That they would feed, would fly, would alight from branch to backyard table to the bird feeder you had
For my dear friend Barbra Vickers. You will be so deeply missed.