They sang and gonged in the sunrise breeze like high mass rituals in the Sistine Chapel, calling birds to the feeders. Flocks of crows and blue jays, wrens, blackbirds and doves, even wild green parrots fluttered and squawked and jockeyed for spots at the feeders. They brushed the wind chimes, changing the tempo until the yard sounded like an amateur band tuning up. Tess didn’t see a single hummingbird among them and felt immeasurably depressed by their absence. Ridiculous. Tess couldn’t recall ever seeing a hummingbird in the Florida Keys or anywhere in South Florida. Her own reflection in the window stared back at her. I’m still me. Eyes a smoky blue. Hair long, blond, wavy. A mouth that could yet smile. When she had died five months ago today, her inner landscape had changed dramatically, but she didn’t see it yet in the way she looked. This seemed important. Pipes clattered somewhere. Her mother or niece were up and she wished she could have an hour more alone. She immediately felt guilty about thinking that way.
