A flash of blue out of the corner of my eye makes me pause.
Out the lace-lined window of the living room, perched on the lowermost branch of the oak in the front yard, is a blue jay. Its head, framed with the signature black markings along the neck, twitches from side to side as though trying to hear noises invisible to me. Perhaps from far away, and perhaps from close by. I don’t know that the blue jay can see me, but I place my needles and yarn spool in my lap to use my arms as my own perch along the backside of the couch.
I know for a fact that it’s too cold for blue jays—for any bird, really—to be in our tree. The dew that morning had left a crunchy frost on the grass that pleased my ears, and the breeze made me pull up my infinity scarf up around my neck and nose when I stepped out for that first breath of fresh air this morning. Keeping my feet flat upon the firm, cold earth, feeling the crunchy grass give way beneath my weight. A cup of warm tea in my fingerless-gloved hands. I always liked feeling the warm mug beneath my bare fingers.
As I watch the blue jay now, I wonder why it is sitting there, quirking its head side to side. It’s still looking in the same direction as when I first saw it.
A bright blue punch of color on an otherwise gray morning.
I can’t help but wonder what it’s waiting for… A meal to quirk its ears. For the snow to fall. A mate it won’t fly south without.
At that thought, I drop my eyes, a wave of grief overcoming me. No tears come, not anymore.
A shrill ring pierces the room, and I pad across the patterned rug to pick up the phone, the scarf in progress laid upon the cream sofa.
“Hello, darling,” I say immediately, knowing it’s one of my cherubs calling. Someone always does this time of morning, ever since…
“Hi, Mom,” my daughter’s voice chimes back at me. A wariness tinging her forced bright tone. “How are you doing this morning?”
This is part of the new routine. One of my children calls and asks how I am doing, and I feel like nothing has changed. Despite how much I want it to… This morning, I say something different.
“Do you know there’s a blue jay sitting outside in the oak tree this morning,” I say, crossing the room slightly, the cord of the phone stretching a little as I go. From there, I can still see the blue jay standing on that lone low branch.
“Oh.” She sounds surprised. “That’s a nice little surprise, isn’t it?”
“It is a pretty little thing,” I say, noticing the bird flap its wings, though staying quite contentedly on the branch. “How are you, my darling?”
“A little sad still, but moving forward,” she says. She’ll be more honest with her feelings than my eldest son. “I just wanted to check on you, I’ll be by tonight with a pie my boss brought in. I have no use for it, you know, and I thought you might like it.”
My love always loved pie, so that makes me smile. But my daughter developed diabetes as a child so she avoids sweets like it is her full-time job.
“What kind of pie?”
“I think she said blueberry or huckleberry, one of the two.”
“Sounds lovely, dear.”
Blue jay. Blueberry. I make the mental note to try and remember if it is in fact blueberry later on. I’d like that kind of synchronicity.
“You know,” she starts, a hint of refresh on her breath. “I think I remember hearing once that blue jays show up as messengers from heaven.”
I don’t know if it’s true, but a warmth blossoms in my chest, and my eyes dart back to the tree. The bird isn’t there anymore and any smile that had raised at that mention falls.
It must have flown away when I wasn’t looking.
A pang replaces the momentary warmth that was in my heart.
“Maybe it’s Dad,” she says, quietly, hopefully.
This time a tear leaks out through my left eye. A single tear. I let it slowly trek down my cheek before wiping it as the wetness reaches my chin.
“Could be, sweet pea.”
“Anyway,” she says before clearing her throat, “I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Bye, love.”
I place the phone back on the home base, and walk to the living room window, my heart seemingly breaking all over again. The bird is not in the tree. I sit myself on the couch and continue to gaze out the window, grateful even if just for a moment of unusual bright beauty in the day.
And then I see it again.
The blue jay right on top of the mailbox.
Its head turns momentarily toward me before a flap of wings takes the bird flying away on the wintery breeze. Blue jays are messengers, she said…
I bundle up into my scarf and knit sweater and go outside, crunching along the crisp, frosty grass, to the metal gray mailbox with the numbers 4343 on it in peeling black stickers. The numbers I realize now reflect how many years we were married.
Inside the mailbox is a little card, parchment that looks and feels familiar. No address, but clearly waiting for me. I glance around. No flash of blue to be seen. My fingers flip open the card, the card that wasn’t in the mailbox yesterday.
Only four words were on the card… Four words that were also on the first bouquet of flowers my husband gave me when he started courting me after four years of friendship.
For my flighty girl
***
Written October 2022