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 around a few times like maybe about to say something.

“What was her name?” I said.

Gramma kept looking out the window. Didn’t say nothin’. Just kept nodding and looking, her lips moving like she might say something.

 

Later when I was leaving, after saying goodbye and see you tomorrow. She told me.

“Rebecca,” she said. “Rebecca Ann.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Not Sarah,” she said. “Someone else’s mom; that is.”