not quite deathbed confessional (july 10th, 2021)

let me lay back, silvery hair pressed to my pillow so that i can watch the birds swoop into the tree across the yard. you know they’ve lived there a while? ever since we moved in, i’ve been woken up by their chittering calls, long before the Sun moved to join the clouds each morning.

bring me that blanket, please. a friend from high school made it for me. she knitted whenever she had free time — she told me it took four months. at that point, is the time really free anymore? the yarn couldn’t have cost more that $30, but i am wealthy in being able to hold her handiwork to my cheek.

and that terra-cotta mug, too. our neighbor brought it over as a housewarming gift and — you know i never used to drink tea? soon after i’d finally gotten the house in order, they would come over on sunday mornings and painstakingly teach me brewing techniques. i would make breakfast, lots of blueberry-lemon pancakes and turkey bacon and too-sweet sliced pineapple, and they would make tea. i wish we’d taken a picture together so that i could show you now. they wore a lot of silver jewelry and had dark curls and a kind smile. i have the mug though, so you’ll have to take my word on the rest.

i’ve never been good at caring for plants — there is more patience and intention required than i can expend (i’m better off letting things flourish alone) — but i am good at this, feeing wool on my fingers and remembering a classmate’s perfume or drinking oolong with honey and hearing laughter.

remind me to call your aunt. she did some bird-watching in the spring and — i think i’d like to know more about my friends outside the window, find some way to say “thank you,” give them something to remember me by.