A bird swept into our window
yesterday, brushing across it
but flying away. Our granddaughter,
nowhere near the window but twirling
as usual, cried out and fell to the ground:
I saw a shadow in the hallway, she said.
She’s seen them there before, ghosts,
and won’t walk down that hallway
alone. I thought maybe the bird had died,
then thought about Susan, transitioning
hospice said. She passed away last night.
And it would be like her, wouldn’t it,
to find the children first, on her way
to say goodbye. And it would be like her,
too, to send me a bird—not to harm the bird,
of course, or frighten the child,
but the not-yet-dead can be clumsy
on their way out, waving to everyone
as they search for the door.
