That feral parakeet flock winged by this afternoon, squawking raucously. That sound always make me smile. Remember when we fed the parakeets in Panama? And the torrential rain woke us in the night drumming on the tin-roofed beach house? The racket made it impossible to go back to sleep so we got up and ate an entire pineapple, the acid overload stripping the cells in our mouths, a chemical burn. The sound and taste of you. It’s the second of June.
Your birthday was on this day, dear Jim, and you are thought of daily, hourly, by your loving, grieving Kat.
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