Starlings


Instead of funeral, I tell my two-year-old, celebration of life. 

She stands quietly in the pew, in her grey pea coat and pink Mary Janes, sorting hymnal books.

There are wildflowers. A trumpeter plays Silent Night. 

At the cemetery she finds a fallen American flag among the brown leaves. I root it in the dirt, upright and sturdy, next to the headstone. 

Driving home through snow squalls, the sun sinks purple and hot pink. A murmuration of starlings rises above the tree line and sweeps across the sky.

(Post 306 of 365)

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