by Bob Thurber

Sunday, after church, I woke in Harold's big chair, surrounded by long shadows. I had a sense of dreaming something the minister had said. A sea breeze puffed the curtains at me. I moved my head a tiny bit, just enough to see what had become of the sun. And what I saw pulled my breath from me: our entire yard overrun with birds. Hundreds of small black birds hopping about, pecking the ground between the patch that had once been my garden, all the way back to the pines.

"Harold, come quick. Bring my glasses!"

I got to my feet and stood behind the curtain. It took nearly a minute before it settled on me.

So often after a nap I remember like that: too late, so sudden. No more Harold. No Harold to bring anything to or from. The idea settles and resettles like a familiar ache. Too often now I lose my senses and find myself talking to empty space. That's not entirely my fault. The house is too large for one person. Last Sunday I thought about baking a French meat pie and planning a picnic lunch for two. I spoke to the house. I addressed the house as Harold. I heard the echo.

A little of that is fine, my daughter-in-law tells me; completely normal for a woman my age; though too much — she doesn't say this on the phone — too much might start me down trouble's road, make me more of a problem than I am worth.

The truth is, I'd hate to be a bother to her or my son. Toward the end of his days, Harold despised that he had become a bother to doctors and nurses, children and friends. You are no bother, Harold, I used to tell him. He was no bother. Not for one moment to the very end. Though I agree, a burden to one's children is no proud way to finish a life.

By feel alone I found my reading glasses among my knitting, and then my good distance glasses in the very next place I looked. The curtain puffed up and pressed across my face. I held it like a veil and I focused on the birds. I considered all the birds. I doubted anyone, especially my daughter-in-law, would believe so many birds alighted in one small space. So I took a count.

I used my finger. I tallied up and across. I calculated, and reached an estimate just seconds before they broke, all of them, rising, their flickering shadows curling over the house like a giant black wave.The fluttering boomed like thunder.

Oh, Harold! My precious darling. These eyes are bad and my numbers may be off — way off. Please take a count from your side. Do tell me you saw what I saw: between the pines and the patch that was the garden, more than enough birds to mask the face of God.

Bob Thurber grew up in Rhode Island and now lives in Southeastern Massachusetts. Selections of his published work and contact information can be found here.