Photo: Sue Vincent
They were like stars, swirling low and high across the sky, marking the path of time and soul and light and dark and what will come and what had been.
As the murmuration rose and swelled, so did the sorrow in her chest, as did tears, and longing, and gratitude.
Her grandmother had told her once, that murmurs were a way of making stars. Flocking in elegant waves across the heavens, to the places far above, where movement wasn’t labored and where breath no longer hurt and where hearts beat in the unison of souls that know all separation is only an illusion.
She held on, remembering, her tears a stream to feed flowers that would grow to feed the small things that would feed the starlings that would murmur to make stars to house beloved souls. And she thought of how the murmur in her chest – which made sound and sobs – ached and expanded as the birds’ wings wove and rose and dipped and dove.
For it was like being seen.
The starlings’ dance a last hello, a soft goodbye, a blessing on the wind.