First Easter after my Mother’s Death
I knew she would return to me in the spring,
not as a heron or owl or steady cardinal flame,
but as a quick flash, years in the making—
a moment I could not afford to miss.
And so I put out feeders, bulging with seed,
as always, starved for her love.
It was the year everything bloomed
too soon or not at all,
the year of extravagant finches: I couldn’t get over
how yellow they flew.
When the calico brought gilded feathers
to the door,
I knew what I loved was truly gone.
Still, those feathers littering the steps
were not without grace,
which meant I could love the finch—
frail, hollow boned, all electric petals of light.
I could love the vivid feathers,
warm in my palm.
And I could love the calico as well,
taking and giving in equal measure,
reminding me to hold brightness and history
with a gentle touch,
to greet each new gift with an open, aching hand.
-Laura Apol
