Remembering

• Short story
• Drama

								
Birdie woke up, feeling the early morning quiet settle around her like a blanket. She snuck down the hall to her mother’s room, ready for her usual pre-school cuddle. In the dim light, she took careful steps around clutter piled lazily against the walls. When she creaked open the door, expecting to see her mother sitting there, a different sound reached her—a soft sobbing.
The bed was empty. Her mother’s voice was gone, replaced by someone else’s cry. Birdie froze, a chill running up her spine.
She remembered. Her mother was gone. Why did she have to remember?
Peeking around the doorframe, Birdie saw her dad sitting on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped in the dim morning light. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but to Birdie, it felt like it never would.
“Dad?” she called out quietly.
Her father looked up with a startle, quickly wiping his tears on his sleeve. He forced a small smile. “Oh, hey, my sweet songbird.”
“I forgot again,” she whispered, almost as if it were a secret she didn’t want to say out loud.
“Me too,” he replied, rising to give her a hug. “You know what? I think it’s a great morning for pancakes. How does that sound, songbird?”
Birdie nodded faintly and followed him downstairs. In the kitchen, he took out the mixing bowls and flour, while Birdie grabbed the eggs from the fridge. She watched as her father cracked them open with ease, his face easing a bit as he worked.
“You know, Dad, I’ll be ten next year,” Birdie said, her voice unusually serious.
“You’re still eight, Birdie,” he chuckled. “Why are you thinking about ten when you’re not even nine yet?”
But Birdie didn’t respond, her mind caught on something she couldn’t quite remember, like the faint echo of a memory. The smell of pancakes cooking filled the room, and for a moment, it brought a warm, comforting tide over her. She closed her eyes, letting herself sink into it.
That night, Birdie lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her room felt huge, empty, and too quiet. Clutching Mr. Fuzz, her stuffed bear, she willed herself to sleep. Slowly, she drifted into a strange, floating feeling.
When Birdie opened her eyes again, she was back in her bedroom, but everything was different. Sunlight poured in through her window, filling the room with a golden glow that felt almost too perfect. The shelves were neatly arranged, the floor spotless. Birdie looked around, feeling both comforted and strangely nervous.
A gentle, familiar melody floated down the hall. Birdie got up and followed the sound, her steps light, almost as if she were floating. The house was clean and bright, untouched by sadness. She reached her mother’s door, which was open wide, and peered inside.
“Mom?” she called softly, her heart pounding with hope.
Her mom sat on the edge of the bed, folding laundry. She looked up with a warm, familiar smile and patted the bed beside her.
“Good morning, Birdie,” her mother said, as if nothing had changed.
Birdie ran to her, sinking into her mother’s embrace, feeling the warmth she missed so much. “Mom, I had a terrible dream. You were gone, and everything was all sad and dark.”
“Oh, my love,” her mother whispered, stroking Birdie’s hair. “Dreams can be so strange, can’t they? But I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
Birdie felt her heart swell with relief, holding on tightly as the nightmare began to fade away.
The next day at school, Birdie’s head was full of pictures of her mother, alive and healthy. At recess, a girl named Sarah walked up to her with a casual, curious tone.
“So, Birdie, I heard your mom died. My mom said she was so sorry to hear it.” Sarah shrugged like it was no big deal.
Birdie’s fists clenched at her sides, her face growing red. “She’s not dead!” Birdie screamed, startling Sarah, who stepped back, wide-eyed.
“Yes, she is. My mom said that she is! I saw people come to your house. I saw the flowers they brought!”
“Shut up! You don’t know anything, Sarah! My mom’s fine; she’s waiting for me at home. So just shut up!” Birdie’s voice trembled as her eyes filled with tears.
As she shouted, a teacher quickly pulled her aside, taking her to the principal’s office. An hour later, her father arrived, looking more exhausted than usual, his features hollow and worn. Birdie sat in the chair outside the principal’s room, arms crossed, feeling a mix of anger and shame settle within her.
Principal Doyle leaned in low to her father. "Mr. Langston, I think Birdie may be having a hard time … understanding what happened."
Her father nodded slowly, running a hand over his face. "I know, I have been trying … I just don't know how to help her."
The principal really leaned in to lower his voice further. "Sometimes children react differently to grief. Denial is common but … she may need more than any of us can give her here."
Mr. Langston nodded. "I understand. I'll look into it."

At dinner that night, they ate in silence. Birdie moved food around her plate and didn't even glance up. Her father watched her, his eyes soft with concern.
"Alright, Birdie," he began, his words soft "about what happened at school today…
Birdie looked up, defiance on her face. "They don't get it, Dad. They don't know anything." Her voice shaking, she clutched the fork tightly in her hand. "Sarah doesn't know anything. She's awful!”
Her dad sighed and reached across the table to put his hand over hers. "She wasn't trying to be mean, Birdie. Sometimes, people just don't know what to say…or how to say it.
"She said Mom was dead." Birdie's voice finally cracked. "But she's not! I saw her, Dad. I talked to her!"
His face softened, and he squeezed her hand in his. "I know you miss her, Birdie. I do too…every single day. And it's okay to wish she were here."
"But it wasn't just a wish," Birdie insisted, her eyes welling. "She promised she'd never leave."
Her dad hunched a little, still holding her eyes. "Birdie…sometimes, when we want something bad enough, our mind gives us ways to pretend like it's real. You ever have one of them dreams that feels so real, you just don't want to wake up?"
Birdie jerked her hand out of his and shook her head. "Not just a dream. Not this time. It felt real.
He nodded acquiescing and didn't press further, knowing part of her wasn't ready to let go. "You know, Birdie, we never lose the people we love. It's okay to remember her, sometimes that is how our memories of her keep her close in their own way.
They sat for some time in silence, the kitchen dark, but for the hum of the refrigerator. Birdie's mind strayed to her mother's warmth in the dream, lavender-scented and soft; her gentle lullabies. It felt all so near-like it had just, an instant before, moved beyond her grasp.
Her dad suddenly broke the silence. “Tomorrow, how about going to the lake? Just you and me.”
Birdie looked up; her face softened, and she nodded. She reached across the table-her small hand finding his-and squeezed.
As they sat there, hand in hand, the warmth crept back in for Birdie, a memory, a whisper, something she could carry with her, just enough to help her hold on.
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