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The Birds Come

  The birds come. Every year. On that day only they seem to know. But it's always in November. Always when I'm out there raking leaves, ‘slong I don't get too close. Always go to that one grave. I been here 47 years. Every year them birds come, always in November, always that one grave. After the third year I went over, after they left, to see which grave. Just a little stone, that one. Just a first name; Sarah, just a year; 1919. Not really in with any family’s stones. Kinda by itself.   Told my gramma about it. About the birds every year. Told her before she died 12 year ago now. “1919,” she said, nodding. “Spanish flu,” she said. “My mama died in 1919,” she said. “November,” she said. Gramma looked out the window across the frozen lawn of the care home where she went when she couldn’t take care of herself no more. Her head moved up and down just a little, stiff like. Like she was looking back all those years, almost a hundred. Her mouth squeezed aroun...
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Omi

  Omi saw the couple come in. Western man and Asian wife. He had gray hair and was handsome. Big pointy nose and narrow face, light eyes. She was too demanding. She was older too and very skinny. Maybe Chinese, she talked like they do. Very demanding but also a silly laugh.   They both wore the Covid masks. Omi and MeiMei and the owner also. They both wanted massage. She wanted Thai massage and he wanted oil massage. She wanted a room with no air conditioning for her but he could have air conditioning. She wanted no fan, no wind. She wanted a table with a hole for her face. She wanted a bathroom. She had a whole list of things she wanted.   He wanted an oil massage.   Omi washed their feet in the basin with the smooth round stones. The man first because the woman wanted to show MeiMei a picture of a person with little dots all over it. An acupuncture map. "Okay, okay," MeiMei said, while the woman pointed and said "Here. And here." The man didn't car...
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