I’ve heard it said that birds come to people who’ve lost someone dear. It seemed a nice thing to believe, but I never really imagined it might be true. But neither did I imagine losing my only sibling at the age of 53. Nic’s childhood nickname, Twinkle, was apt. She was the brightest, kindest person I’ve ever known, and the ferocity of the cancer that took her in barely a month just before Christmas blindsided us all.
A few days after she slipped away, we went with friends to watch a starling murmuration. It’s something we do most years, but never before have we seen a bird tumble from the throng and crash at our feet like a feathered meteorite. I scooped her into my hat. Sometimes all a stunned bird needs to recover is a warm, safe place to rest. But it wasn’t to be, and so now that impossibly beautiful body is buried* under our damson tree. Star. Sister. Bird. Blossom. All the same interchangeable stuff.
