On the Anniversary of Steven’s Death

My neighbor Dan says I need therapy because today, when a bald eagle landed on my porch railing, dropping a feather on my freshly painted deck, I threw a dart at it. But what does he know? He’s been full of hot air ever since his divorce, always coming over here trying to talk me into getting into bed with him. This is my land and any bird that lands on it is lucky I’m not serving it fried.

Dan says I’m still carrying the grief—like it’s something I could just hang up, like Steven’s Red Sox hat, on the white picket fence that separates us. But I’m keeping the hat—it still smells like Steven’s sweat, like my sheets.

Dan says the eagle is Steven’s spirit that visited us because I’m in danger, on the razor-edge between grieving and suicidal. I want to tell Dan he’s nuts, that this is the strangest tactic he’s tried to get me to sleep with him—stranger than the blood-dipped roses and chocolate-covered ants—but when I look into his eyes, he’s so damn sincere. And the truth is—the spirit ain’t wrong. In the end, I’m glad I’m a poor shot at darts.