Family Patterns: Cyanocitta cristata

A band of blue jays gathers and chatters out on the sidewalk, the sun scorches the sky near white, and I just know that they’re going to all tap-tap-tap on the storm door glass, and I’m going to let them in, and when they come inside the biggest one, dusty blue, is going to say in my mother’s voice, sure is a hot one out there today, and the rest of the blue jays will follow her in, all fletched in the brightness, they’ll be whistling and jeering, they’ll perch on the back of my couch and my bookshelves, they’ll make a nest of my floor, they’ll fill up the rocking chair, they’ll just keeping coming, flapping through the door, with the familiar, sharp voices of my brothers, some will sound like my cousins and uncles, like so many aunties, they’ll ask when I’m going to come visit next, and why they always have to come to me, and how am I doing since Dad died, and don’t I look just like him, well except for the eyes, and what a shame he isn’t around, and when the last one crosses the threshold my living room is gonna be full up, bird stacked on bird stacked on shitting bird, bodies blue like water or summer sky, blue as if Matisse painted them, blue like a uniform, blue like glass bottles and oxford shirts, blue like Dad’s eyes, blue blue blue like that sad Leann Rhimes song Mom likes, blue like being oh so lonesome too, and I just know one of them will start up the family birdsong, a whispery clicking melody, and when it’s over they’ll ask why I never want to sing with them anymore, and the truth is I do, but without Dad here, I can never hit the right note of blue.

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