The Memory Letter

i am watching flutters of greying birds perch above in heaven-like streaks of soaring sun. they nestle in the weeping tree that holds and hangs itself above panes of glass, enveloped by 1962 red brick, a wallowing willow or redgum, all bark and bruise. april’s edge crisps the sun into biting glaciers, but the yellowed glow speaks kindly and soft, a knitted blanket swaddling a freezing frame, and i am struck by this omnipotent presence. it was simply striking, a knowing that i’m being gently watched or read by an unknown shadow who knows me all too well. a glistening dewdrop, a pair of brown sandals, a sparrow or three, images that would cross my mind years later, details that fell into cracks and collect like rainwater, an oblivious outlook to how it was all just beginning and how it was all just so beautiful in that old moment, a moment of stillness before the seasons twisted themselves into the mindgame that is the unfathomable passing of time, before the memory is hidden away in folds of grey, locked in a suitcase, a package, a sock drawer, pressed into chrysanthemums and brewed into green tea, sold in farmers markets and swirled into poems, written into letters addressed to a forlorn cul-de-sac that had been abandoned years ago, a letter addressed 20 years too early to a woman living in 2046 who sits at her window watching flutters of greying birds perch above, admiring the blurring gum leaves and the sun and the sparrows flood back beneath throbbing clouds and dying daisies. the pressed wax seal would be broken with a blade, and nostalgia would be born, red-cheeked and swollen, and she’d almost cry at the awe, at the circles, at the yearning, the hope in the letter, the wishes and the wants, the self-fulfilling prophecy and the serendipity. she’d seal it again for the next sunshine-filled afternoon.