GRIEF Poem: A Cardinal, by Samantha Shafrath

Before we moved to the other side
of town my mother told me that one day
my grandmother would be a cardinal.

Grammy sat on a rocking chair
in our living room, and the sun would rise,
shining a halo around her graying head.
A wicker basket sat beside her chair,
and she would crochet tales for me.

Every woman was meant to be a cardinal,
and one day soon she would join the mothers
and grandmothers of our family’s past.

Grammy could translate the birdsong,
stitch their stories into scarves to warm
chilly mornings that we could wrap
around ourselves like a hug.

Our new house has a bay window, refracting
reminders that the sun still exists behind an empty
rocking chair, a fraying basket with store-
bought blankets. Stretching bare trees
line the backyard, the woodpeckers’ hammering gossip
is senseless and driving. Grammy could understand
them like I never could, never would.

On cold mornings I mummify myself
in crimson scarves, a tourist without a translator.

Even though it’s tedious to count the birds in the sky,
every flash of flapping red tightens my chest,
but it’s never her. My hands aren’t built to crochet
like Grammy could, like my mother does now.

I swaddle in the cold, creaky chair, swaying
side to side, fresh sunlight blinds
my eyes, but my ears detect

an echo of a two-parted whistle. A pale brown bird
sits on the edge of the windowsill,
red-tipped and tailed, and I think that she’s telling me
everything will be alright.