Excerpts from If the Birds Were Singing

A yet-to-be-finished novel by Andrew James

(Working title)

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Excerpt 1:

My grandma gave me everything she had. All that she was and all that she wanted to be, she put into my life. Every time she sliced a piece of bread, every time she stewed meat or baked a dish, decorated a cookie or powdered a diaper, every time she drove me to rehearsal or combed my hair. She gave me a piece of herself with every act of service until there was nothing left to give. A professor, one whom I consider a dear friend, once told me this was what she believed to be the afterlife: your legacy and how others remembered you. Until I heard her say it, I never realized how important one's legacy is, and how what someone does for others matters so much once they’re gone. To me, the truest form of eternal life is both celestial rest and the memories that stay with those one has left behind.

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Excerpt 2:

Grandma was in the kitchen one evening, "fixing me dinner,” as she would say. She was standing in front of a window in her kitchen. She was peeling a potato and humming as she always did when she was cooking or cleaning. It wasn’t until years later that I realized her hums had no author. I didn’t understand how someone could hum so easily to something made up, something so random. Only when I was much older did I realize that only when you’re sad or anxious do you need the comfort of something prewritten, something that you don’t have to work for. From the exhaustive selection process to the familiar tune, you can typically forget your heartache quite fast. You choose your song, and you further distract yourself by humming it. Though when you’re happy, you’re fine with just humming to the tune of your heart. And when life was as peaceful as hers was at the time, it eventually all made sense. And Grandma's heart wasn't aching back then. How could it? She was alive, her family was alive, hearts beating. The sun was yellow, the sky was blue, and her crepe myrtles were in bloom. And the birds were singing, which always made Grandma happy. She loved birds; they were her favorite animals. I’d like to think Grandma was doing just as the birds were doing, for like the birds, she needed no album nor sheet music. Grandma, like the birds, was fine with her improvised symphony.

 

 

Excerpt 3:

She died on a Tuesday in summer in a room far to the east of the building. Her bed lay facing the window as the sun shone through. It was 11 o’clock in the morning. Although the world continued to turn and people went on with their lives, I had lost the greatest love I had ever known. I sat next to her bed, and I wept as I remembered her precious life. Even though her soul lives on, this precious vessel was how I was able to know and love her. I remembered how sweet it was to know her heart was still beating. In life I would have done anything to see her smile- now, all I had were pictures and my dreams. I wept as I touched her wrinkled hands. I always loved her wrinkles; to me they were a mark of wisdom, full of stories from the life she has lived. Her nails were always clipped and well-kempt, with just the smallest little ridges. But her eyes, her eyes were her crown jewels. They were always the clearest blue, and so full of life, and at that moment, I couldn’t believe that they had closed for the last time. I didn’t know whether I should smile because they would never cry again, or if I should weep because they would never see again. I chose the latter. It was bittersweet, but I was fine with that. I feel honored that I was able to be with her, so lucky that I wasn’t alone and so thankful Grandma has parted surrounded by those she loved so dearly. Once they took Grandma for her final preparation, we thought it would be best to eat. As I walked outside, the sun hit my now dry eyes and I begged God for a sign. I begged Him to tell me she was out there somewhere, somewhere conscious, still looking over me, still loving me, still feeling loved by me. And just as I turned to walk away, all the birds began to sing. Perhaps not all, but in the moment, it was all I could hear. I knew it was her. Though I was scared as to what this post-Loretta world would look like, I knew everything would be ok. And as the birds sang, I closed my eyes, felt the breeze rustle around me, and walked on.