The other day a flock of American Robins landed in one of my trees behind my house. It was such a sight, like big and alive beautiful ornaments in a Christmas tree. They were restless, hurried, and when I coughed they flew away, save for a few brave souls.
It was a day of remembrance, not of my lost mother, but of the smell of oranges after a cold rain. Not of my sister, but just a symbol of my sister, who was named Robin.
I only have passing thoughts. Of days on the lake in Whiskeytown, jumping off the shoulders of my mother, and lying for hours in the blazing hot sun. After napping you awake within a hazy dream and run toward the water, it embracing your burnt skin like a homecoming. And your mind goes under the dock, not with a boy or a girl but by yourself, like a sea creature.
It’s never the things that are said but the feelings from memories. Pink roses and drunkenness, a wood stove and lost sisters never known. Manure, abuse, and lingering anger. You think you will feel all this grief, and sometimes you do when Johnny Mathis is playing on vinyl, or when she tried to make it right, and it was too late.