June

I wasn't there the day the robin flew into the kitchen and landed on my grandfather's cap. The story was told many times in the following days as we circled his bedside, and at his funeral. For me, this strange omen only deepened the sense of mythology that hovered at the edges of our last few days with him, in the stories of years past and the songs he sang with my father.

After June, the robin began appearing everywhere: on each walk through the woods, on tea towels and milk jugs. A gift shop in the town nearby sold framed models made from tiny stones painted red, with twig legs. Come December I saw him on wrapping paper and Christmas cards. Once, after the weekly food shop, there he was, planted on the zebra stripes that crossed the car park. Did I imagine that we looked at each other, both of us a bit stunned: fancy seeing you here?

A robin inside the house is said to be a harbinger of death; these days, seeing a robin feels like an invitation to be still. I watch him guard the sycamore tree in our garden. In a dream the other night my grandfather took his place, pulling up the weeds and trimming back the husks of last year's flowerbed.

Maybe next year we'll tell one another: "when robins appear, loved ones are near". For now, he is a benign stranger, pulling me back to the present.