I sit on the sofa with Thelma,
an elderly lady who's captured my heart.
She shows me for the first time
her silvered wedding band
engraved with a feather. Without pause,
she opens the clasp of a Victorian purse.
This is Howard's picture.
I look at the photo of a mockingbird.

Not understanding I murmur,
Your pet bird? Looking from photo to ring,
she holds me with sharp periwinkle eyes,
explains: After my husband, Howard, died
a mockingbird began to appear
each morning in the tree outside my window.

Before I can comment, she asks,
Do you know for sure birds are just birds?

She holds a cup to her cheek waiting
for my answer. I ask, So you believe
Howard is a mockingbird?

You have it. He could mimic anything
he heard and play it on the piano. He visits
every morning.

No one speaks—
an uncomfortable interlude for me.
We sip orange pekoe.
Finally, she sets the cup
on the mahogany table. She leans back
against the cushion, and I take her veined
hand, skin so thin, the blue of a river.

That's why I had my ring redone
with a feather. I agree it's a beautiful ring.


© by Mary Jo Balistreri.
Used with the author's permission.