When I’m reading a joke out loud from a new joke book, I hear my voice start to falter, from laughter, almost to weep, from laughter, the way my sister’s voice did as a child or a woman, especially if somebody made a bathroom joke; and my father’s voice did, when he wasn’t just poking fun at someone, when he found something really funny; slapstick got him laughing that way, sometimes. A laughter beyond words, maybe beyond grief. As I hear myself laughing like them, with them, I say: a laughter beyond death.
The readiness is all, he says, but I’m not ready, not for this: the bluebird back before her time—that is, if she ever left—the winter soft as summer mist when pink buds swell too soon, surprising. Which should, it seems, be cause for joy, but, yet again, it is not so, for on this fragile island earth, ice fields melt, dark waters rise, and sweeping north in wild flight, swans bear within them seeds of death, not yet in bloom, but it will come when warbler, wood duck, raven, wren drop from the silent sky like stones; and in the green dawn no birds sing.