Anna feeds the birds wearing a floral nightgown.
She’s out there so often, puttering around on the deck,
sometimes I wonder if they’re teaching her to fly.

Anna hides bits of blue sea glass in the pebbles beside
her house. Every day after school, I mine through them,
squeaking in glee each time I spot a tiny indigo glistening.

Anna raises Monarch butterflies with us every year.
We watch them go from egg to larva to chrysalis,
to fluttering orange and black miracles flung free.

When Anna and her husband, Frank, go out of town,
I water their plants, fill their bird feeders. The house
is so quiet without them. I walk on the balls of my feet.

When I fall ill, Anna refuses to let me go. If she catches
so much as a glimpse of me, she calls me over. We sit,
drink tea. Talk about birds, perennials, detective novels.

Anna dies before Frank does, but before she goes, she
suffers the indignity of a nursing home. I hate glancing
at their house, and not catching a glimpse of nightgown.

When she does pass away, I inherit her television and
a stunning, mid-century modern chair. Egg-like and blue,
I pour myself into it, read Sharon Olds at midnight.

My parents buy Anna’s house once she’s truly left us. After
my father hammers and hews it into shape, my sister and her
family move in. Do the birds wonder where Anna has gone?

I wonder, too, if her ghost might teach my nieces how to
raise Monarch butterflies. The most important part is
setting them free. The orange-black flutter of farewell.

When Anna died, I sensed a million butterflies rising
into the air all at once, hundreds of birds crying out
her name. For days after her death, I found red and

silvered feathers nestled into the leaves, at every turn.