Notes from the Red Bird House

It was game day so that meant pancakes. With the blueberry syrup. “Go Blue”. That's what he would write. With the syrup. On the pancakes. Three of them. Three pancakes. Never more than three. After breakfast, he'd work in the yard for a couple hours. Always in a t-shirt the opposing team's color. Minnesota meant maroon. Ohio State red. Michigan State green. Rake the leaves. Burn the leaves. Burn the t-shirt. Hang the flag. Represent. Shower. Dress in the current year's jersey. Or the old Brady one. That one was his favorite. They'd won a lot of games while he wore that jersey. And maize socks. Maize. It's not just another word for yellow. It's maize. As in Maize and Blue. Left sock and shoe first. He had to, if he wanted the Wolverines to win. He did so he did. With the pregame on the radio, he'd make the half mile trek to the party store. Coors Light for him, a six pack. Cans. Always cans. And never more than six. White wine for her. She couldn

Sometimes I think maybe she was always there. Just waiting for me. Or maybe I was waiting for her. Maybe it was none of that or all of that. Maybe it was just coincidence. A really happy coincidence. She was there and I was there, so we were there. And because we were, we are. For everything I don't know, I know with certainty that we are. We are. One moment were weren't and then we were. And we still are. This is the miracle. Not that we were. That we still are. Nearly four months later. Four months. For me, but maybe not for her, this is rare, so rare that I can count the times I've been here on one hand. And in reality, I don't know if I've ever been 'here' before. So maybe we aren't a coincidence. Maybe we are what we were supposed to be all along, from the beginning. Our beginning. The beginning that came before we became us, when I was me and she was...well her. Separate. Yet maybe knowing somehow someday that we would be. Us.