Pictures of Birds

Before my mother descended into the underworld of dementia, she used to collect shells. Despite a preference of pool water over natural water, my parents chose to live and die near beaches. I’ve always feared that the shells she brought home would haunt her, and in turn would haunt me. That they weren’t meant to decorate bathrooms and the bottoms of drawers. Even when birds pick up shells for food, they leave behind the hard mineral remnants to disintegrate and be reborn as something else entirely. In this way and many others, I feel the presence of ghosts. Some we bring with us to strange places far from their home. Some we encounter when we attempt to form a bond with a place that was never ours. Now my mother sees ghosts while she’s sleeping and while she’s awake. Her body suspended in liminal space. I sit with her there when I can, and ask the ghosts to tread gently as we simultaneously die and are reborn as something else entirely. Some of the ghosts are my ancestors. Some are angels. All are birds.