Counting Hawks
D’Ann Drennan
-Three Days After Burial-
Dad’s clothes, Old Spice and shoe polish, single lightbulb, wooden hangers, suits, starched shirts, wingtips.
Even though they were married seventy years, Mom isn’t sitting around being sentimental—“I need his closet space.” Fold clothes, bag, haul to car. “Here’s the tie he wore on your wedding day.” Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. “Check that coat pocket.” A photo of our daughter when she was a baby. “Here, take these suits out to the car. Don’t wad ‘em up.” Bury my nose in the lapel, sniffing. Look up at blurry sky.
A bird rides a thermal aloft. My heart flutters in its cage, locked with no key.
-Seven Days After Burial-
Oak door, iron knocker, wooden fence, emerald pasture, lapis sky, minty air.
Blustery, cold, drafty.
I plod out my front door. Shoe soles slap, soul silent. Hawk—vanilla belly, rocky-road wings—sits on the fence forty yards away. He watches me, then lazily launches, flying counterclockwise in long, slow, looping spheres.
Is Hawk a sign?
-Thirteen Days After Burial-
Oak door, iron knocker, ivory fence, pearly pasture, powder sky, crisp air, snow.
Ghostly, hushed, implacable.
I peek out my front door, piqued at God. Dad is dead in my favorite season. Memories. Dad. Building a snowwoman. Dad. Skidding me on my sled around the yard. Dad. Zinging me with a snowball. His head tilted back, eyes crinkled shut, laughing.
I retreat, pull up blanket, huddle before fireplace, scroll Facebook. Four posts in, there’s Hawk—wings up, legs down. scroll,scroll,scroll. Again, Hawk—sharp blue eye yellow beak.
Phone down, staring past fire. 1,2,3,4. Is it? Hope. Heart wings tickle.
-Twenty-Three Days After Burial-
Alarm, fuzzy brain, fuzzy socks, fuzzy tongue, buff sheets, mahogany headboard.
Lamp, mirror, nightstand.
I roll to my husband. “I miss Dad.” Baring the ache helps bear the pain. Arms wrap my torso, lips brush my hair.
Later: Friend stops by. Unwraps cheese. Uncorks wine. Chatters. “I swear on the way over here I saw a hawk. I never notice birds but I couldn’t miss this one…” Friend pours wine. Slices cheese. “It was sitting on the stop sign as I turned onto your road.” Friend hands me a glass. Takes a sip. “At least I think it was a hawk…” Friend picks up phone. tap,tap,tap. “I took a picture.” Friend spins phone around. Hawk—dark wings, lacy belly.
1,2,3,4,5. Can’t be chance. Lock clicks. Cage clangs.
-Fifty-Nine Days After Burial-
Husband driving, daughter and Mom in back, Memorial Day, elms, aureate light, plastic flowers.
Relics, statues, tombstones.
Daughter sings softly, I love you, a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck. Husband puts hand on my knee, squeezes. Mom coughs, clears throat, taps fingers on door. “He sang that to me when he proposed.” Car parks. Air stills. Doors open.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. Heads swivel up. Peach underbelly, banded tail, translucent wingtips.
Kee-ah, kee-ah, kee-ahhhhh. Faces turn as Hawk lands on chainlink fence near Dad’s marker. Hawk angles his head, locks one brown eye on me, slides his membrane across in a horizontal wink. 1,2,3,4,5,6!
I laugh. I straight up fucking, gleefully, riotously laugh, throwing back my head, my jaw unhinging, my eyes scrunching. The other three look at me, questioning. But I peer at Hawk. “Thanks Dad. I love you, too.”
Hawk flexes and launches. My heart soars alongside, cage and lock discarded with my father’s body.
D’Ann Drennan writes about relationships, whether between friends and foes, figs and fenugreek. She has been a lawyer, a stay-at-home mom, a yoga and qigong teacher, has run a wildlife safari, earned a black belt, and survived motherhood. D’Ann lives in Grandview, Texas, with her husband, son, pets, and errant wildlife.
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