The gathering felt hopeful,
a flock of over 50 robins in the front tree, could
only be a promise of spring, the daily dreariness of winter behind.
The dream last night, the one where you almost sang,
and revealed all of the secrets you’ve kept for the last eleven years.
The talk of new medicines and trials, the idea that a surgical scissors could quietly
snip and repair
Mend the broken, invisible
So simple, if there was just one last ingredient in the solution.
Those birds, they shit all over my car and then took off a better tree.
Everyone in our life has those dreams of Henry and then I remember this might be forever.
The idea of cures, once very real has drifted into the maybe nots and maybe better nots.
Robins only start singing in the spring. The ones perched high in our tree didn’t offer their song. My heart is always lifted the first time I hear it. Those songs, those discoveries, those little offerings of hope. Maybe not yet. Wait.
