The Juncos

"Casey was always so funny," I murmur, holding the faded photo close to her face, close enough that she can see it. "Remember this? Remember when he dressed Winston up like a doll?"

I trace my finger over the furry little guinea pig in the picture, trapped forever in a tiny yellow dress with white lace trim. The edges of the photo are curled and Winston’s dress is faded into a dull sepia color.

"Poor Winston- he was so sweet," I say with a soft laugh. "Casey always used to take my dolls' clothes and dress him up, and Winston would just sit there so compliant.”

My finger lingers on the photo, over the dress, the lace, the tiny arms pinned at his sides. "I think that dress was from my Cabbage Patch doll. What was her name? Jessica Mary… no, Jessica Marie. That’s it. Jessica Marie."

I glance up at her and search her face, waiting. Hoping.

Carefully, I peel back the crinkled plastic of the photo album, its pages stiff and brittle under my touch. I slide the photo into place, smoothing down the film with my palm, pressing it flat. The album smells musty, the faint tang of mildew curling up from its worn spine. It’s too old. I should have bought a new one. Maybe I’ll pick one up on my way home. Or maybe I’ll just order one online—that’ll be easier—no need to wander the aisles of a store, searching, thinking. I press my hand to the page, willing it to stay in place, willing everything to stay.

"Do you remember?" I ask again, quieter this time. She blinks slowly before her eyes shift towards the window. I pull out another stack of photos from the chest.

"Look at this one," I say, holding it up, tilting it toward her so she can see. "Remember? My junior prom. I didn’t have a date, so Casey went with me.” Her eyes stay fixed on the window, so I return the photo to my face and study it.

"I’m not surprised I didn’t have a date. You see my hairstyle?” I chuckle, examining the crooked angle. “I think you were the one taking the photo." Half of Casey is cut clean out of the frame. The bottom half of my gown is nothing but a hazy blur—a finger smudging over the lens, soft and pink like a ghostly cloud across the image.

"You really were lousy at taking photos, Mom," I say with a small laugh.

I glance up, waiting. Searching. Her lips twitch slightly, but it's not quite a smile. Not the smile she used to give whenever we teased her, a gentle, knowing curve of her mouth.

"Let’s find some good ones of you now,” I say, peeling back the crinkled plastic of the album page. I slip the photo inside and shuffle through the pile on my lap.

A photo of Casey and me climbing onto the school bus, our backpacks too big for our tiny bodies.

Another of the three of us—Casey, Dad, and me—combing the beach for shells, our footprints scattered behind us in the damp sand.

Dad pushing me on the swing in our backyard, my hair flying, my arms reaching for the sky.

Casey and I opening Christmas presents, ribbons and wrapping paper everywhere.

I exhale, pressing my lips together, my fingers gripping the photo edges too tightly.

"God dammit, Dad," I whisper, my voice breaking under the weight of it. "Why couldn’t you have taken more photos of mom?"

The chest creaks as I lean forward, pressing my forehead into my hand before looking back at her.

She blinks, her gaze drifting across the room. I follow it to the grandfather clock standing against the wall, its wooden frame worn with time. Maybe she’s looking at the spot on the edge—where Casey bumped his head all those years ago and ended up needing three stitches.

Maybe she remembers.

I glance back at her and smile, but she’s no longer looking at the clock. Her gaze is fixed outside, beyond the window, at the bird feeder swaying gently in the breeze.

I made sure to fill it this morning, just like always. The juncos are there, hopping and pecking, their tiny bodies flitting between the wooden perches.

"Juncos are hungry this morning, aren’t they?" I say, leaning forward, trying to catch her eye. A cardinal swoops in suddenly, its crimson wings a blur, scattering the smaller birds in a flurry of feathers.

She doesn’t flinch.

"Don't worry. I’ll find some photos of you that Dad took," I say, more to myself than to her, flipping through the next stack of photos.

Casey, mid-air, launching himself from a rope swing into the lake.

Me, blowing out birthday candles, my face half-hidden in the rising smoke.

Dad laughing, a thick ribbon of cigar smoke curling around his head.

"Why didn’t you take more pictures of her?" I whisper, the words catching like splinters in my throat.

A slight movement draws my eyes upward. She’s looking at me again, her gaze steady but distant. I force a smile, sheepish. "I guess

I thought he took more photos..." My voice trails off. "There has to be a good one in here somewhere."

I sift through the pile again. Slowly, at first. Then faster.

Casey and me.

Me and Casey.

Casey.

Casey.

Me.

Dad, me, and Casey.

Casey, me, and Dad.

Dad. Dad.

The edges stick together, years of dust and fingerprints binding them like old wounds that won’t quite heal. I mutter a silent curse at my father. Why would you do this? How could you? My hands tremble as I pry the photos apart.

A ring cuts through my thoughts. I look down at my phone, the nursing home’s number flashing on my screen. We were supposed to be there thirty minutes ago.

I sit up straight, blinking, wiping away the tears with the back of my hand.

"How about I just finish this one album today?" I ask, reaching across the table to take her hand in mine. Her skin is thin, papery, but warm. "Then tomorrow, I can bring another one when I visit?"

Her eyes are back on the bird feeder. The juncos have returned. Four of them. Three are pecking at the seeds, and one stands on guard, scanning the yard for another intrusion.

I let go of her hand and carefully place the photos back in the chest.

My fingers brush against something solid, and I lift out a small shoebox. The cardboard is worn, the corners soft.

"Look, baby shoes," I say, holding them up for her to see, though her gaze doesn’t move. Two tiny pairs—one ivory, one scuffed and yellowing. "Which pair do you think were mine?"

I turn them over in my hands, feeling the smooth leather, the cracked soles. "Maybe the worn ones were Casey’s, since he was born first," I suggest, placing them down gently. Beneath them, a pile of papers—Casey’s birth certificate. Mine. My report card: A’s and B’s. Casey’s: B’s and C’s.

A small envelope. I slide it open and find a poem inside—Ben Jonson's Epigram: On My First Son. I skim the words, their weight heavy, familiar. A prayer card falls out next, with Casey’s high school graduation photo staring back at me.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and tuck everything back into the shoebox, sealing it shut with trembling hands.

"I just need to find one more photo," I say, more to myself than to her, placing the box back in the chest. My hands dive back into the stacks—no longer careful, no longer worried about the delicate paper cracking beneath my grip.

She needs a photo of herself. Something to remind her. To anchor her. Because if she can’t remember herself, how will she ever remember us?

A small sound pulls me from my frantic search. I look up. She’s staring—not at the album, but at the half-empty glass of water sitting beside it.

"Water?" I ask, pointing. Her eyes don’t move.

I lift it to her lips, guiding the straw carefully. "Take a sip," I whisper.

She drinks, and a thin trickle escapes down her chin, darkening the collar of her shirt.

"It’s okay," I say, dabbing it away with the washcloth from her lap. "Just a little spill. It’s okay."

Her eyes drift back outside.

I pick up another handful of photos, spreading them across my lap.

"Oh, look," I say, relief washing over me. "Your wedding." I study the image—the church towering in the background, St. Paul’s, I think. I hold it up to her face. "Was this at St. Paul’s?"

I lower the photo. Her hair is pulled half up, a long veil cascading over her shoulder. She and my dad aren’t smiling—not really. Just grinning— like smiling with teeth wasn’t in style back then.

"This will be nice to put in the album," I say, peeling back the last plastic page and smoothing it down with careful hands. My fingers stick to the worn film, and I glance at her again. “This will be enough for today, won’t it?”

I want her to tell me it’s enough. That she’ll look at these today, smile, and remember. That she’s not afraid to go. That it’s okay I can’t do this by myself anymore.

That she’ll be fine.

That I’ll be fine.

I reach for her hand again, following her gaze to the bird feeder.

The juncos are still there—three of them eating, one still on guard.

"I hope that one gets a chance to eat," I whisper, squeezing her hand three times. "She’s going to starve if she just keeps watching out for everyone else."

I blink once, and just like that, the cardinal returns.

The juncos scatter.