Free All the Dancing Birds by Auburn McCanta Page A

down. Both places offered magical hope; both gave, in the end, only poignancy and heartless truth. How could I have explained my loss without making it yours as well? I felt that a worse cruelty, so I simply kissed your beautiful heads, washed your tiny fingers and let it go at that.
If you’ve felt deprived, I hope you’ll forgive a mother’s irresponsibility. The fierce protection of one’s children doesn’t come without its unintended consequences.
As I write this, we’re well past the time for me to have taught you the stories of heaven and hell. Nevertheless, I hope when your own Sunday cloud comes by to snag itself on the eaves of your houses, or fill your throats with cloudy tears, I hope you’ll remember this letter. I hope you’ll remember that I’m sorry I didn’t have the righteousness to place you in a church pew, or at the very least, show you how to properly hold a fishing pole or how to scream into an upside-down wind. But‌—‌when you need it most‌—‌I hope you’ll remember how it felt to have kisses on your little heads, all throughout the day.
Love,
Your Mother
    Once more, oh God, once more , I stand in my closet with the knowledge that unseen disturbances are changing the entire structure of my mind. My brain is slowly being strangled. I’m being slowly deprived of my oxygen and I gasp with anxiety.
    I return the letter to its proper fold and then to its place in the box, alongside its newest companion letter.
    I leave the closet in time to hear the first raindrop of a rare Sacramento summer storm crash against the window. It makes me look up with agony in my heart. It isn’t so much that an unusual rain has started to fall, but rather that I’m so stricken by its thunderous presence. I simply don’t know what I should do next.
    I place my face against the suddenly cold bedroom window. The rain makes me think that time is passing by and I am passing by‌—‌and now an odd rain is knocking, knocking at my window.

Chapter Eight
    I ’ve abandoned sticky notes that refuse to stay put on my thumbs and arms and, instead, now cleverly journal every idea and whim in small moleskin booklets that Bryan brings to me. I’ve also taken to wearing slacks with big hip pockets, which I fill with these little notebooks, along with pens of different colors. Ever the pragmatist, Bryan’s instructed me with the proper use of these blank books.
    I write about every aspect of my days‌—‌who called, who did not, how the sky turned lavender at the end of the street, and how the garden now gasps and suffers under my neglectful hand.
    Allison, on the other hand, fusses over my bulging pockets, clucking and loudly chortling disapproval of my little books. She’s come today to bring me fashion magazines: flipping through the pages, she points one delicately polished finger toward pictures of hollow-cheeked models, sleek and skinny in pants that threaten to fall from their tiny hips.
    “This is the new style,” she says. None of the fashions appeal to me, nor do they have any practical application for my purposes. “Notice that not one of these pictures shows a woman with notebooks sticking out of her pockets. They don’t even have pockets.”
    I bristle. “Without pockets, how can these pieces of cloth then be considered true pants? And furthermore, not one of these poor, underfed girls is over thirteen or suffering from Alzheimer’s.”
    “ Mother! It’s crazy that you and Bryan think you have some feeble old person’s disease.”
    “Honey, it’s not what we think… it’s that rotten doctor who says these things. Blame it on her and her tiny little hipless body. I certainly do.” I offer a wan smile.
    Allison peers over another magazine page. “I still don’t think there’s anything wrong with you that a little pampering won’t fix. See? Now, look at this.” Allison holds her fingernails out for my inspection. They feature a spotless French manicure; I coo over them, which makes