Astray and Not
12/15/2004 05:56 p.m.
I found the draft, mentioned in my earlier entry this morning! It was safely parked on my binder in my study, away from all the Christmas paraphernalia after all. I've decided to get it down here, and will revise later of course. Some things do come home to us, to roost. Some don't.

Astray (working title)

The scent of orange pekoe tea bags
brings back to me
little glossy birds
of various Canadian species
in their authentic colours.

Two new stickers perfectly resembling
real birds, but in miniature
arrived in our home
in each fresh package of tea
my British father brought home
that year

The purchase and opening
meaning a surprise of which additions
would appear for
my sister’s and my collections
in the accompanying narrow, long
sticker book the tea company
included in the promotion.

Red-breasted Grosbeaks,
brilliant orange and black Orioles,
black-capped chickadees, lemon goldfinches,
crimson Cardinals became mine, to keep, in
their vivid imitations, from eye to wing accurate
in design, perched on a branch, or in wingspread flight.

We were entitled to one each
from every package, my sister and I

As soon as we dug in and retrieved
our respective additions,
I’d avidly search my book
for the correct matching place
with the species identified below
and lick the back, then lodge and press it in neatly
and smooth the shiny colored form down

My first hobby collection. Afterward,
I’d hold the book to my nose and enjoy
the benefit of the scent.

My sister seemed to prefer adhering hers
to the fourth drawer, of her pine bedroom dresser
dad had built, where she created an aviary
that remained secure for years of her birds,
some flying, some at a standstill.

My assortment of the realistic capture
of these friends, lived and grew in
my pages, within the beautiful slick cover
revealing the whole series together,
and was eventually almost complete.
(My dad drank a lot of tea, and as children
we were permitted also, and seemed much
thirstier for it that year).

The book traveled with me on the walks
to school and back, and to friends’ houses.
But in the cloak room at school,
or in a puddle on the trek home
one night, I lost it all, somehow.
The set became instantly extinct, and
the promotion series ended, before I could re-start.
And for days I would visit the school’s lost-and-found
but come home disappointed.

My sister’s remained the only tangible reminder
survivors flying in their stillness,
on the face of the dresser drawer
across the room from my bed
as I stared at them every night
imagining the fate of all of my birds,
gone astray.

I am currently Crafty