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<p>Memory works strangely, <a href="roughgloves.html">spooling its thread</a><br />over the <a href="when-im-sorry.html">nails of events</a> barely related,<br />creating finally some picture, if we’re<br />lucky, of a life—but more likely, it knots<br />itself, catches on a nail or in our throats<br />that gasp, as it binds our necks, for air.</p>
<p>An example: today marks one hundred years<br />since your namesake, the last living passenger<br />pigeon, died in Cincinnati. It also marks<br />a year since we last spoke. Although around<br />the world, zoos mourn her loss, I’m done<br />with you. I mourn no more your voice, the first<br />sound I heard outside my body that reached<br /><a href="weplayedthosegamestoo.html">into my throat and set me ringing</a>. But that string—</p>
<p>memory that feels sometimes more like a tide<br />has yoked together, bound your voice to that bird,<br />the frozen, stuffed, forgotten pigeon—my heart<br />is too easy, but it must do—to blink, to flex<br />its unused toes, slowly thaw to the wetness<br />of <a href="cold-wind.html">beating wings</a>, fly to me again, and alight,<br />singing full-throated, on my broken shoulder.</p>
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