Canary soup. That’s what it looked like.
Debbie scrunched her nose at the yellow liquid. The wooden spoon glided through it so easily. For now. So easily she was tempted to set the spoon down and walk away for a moment. Just long enough to make a cuppa. But she didn’t dare. The ease right now was short lived. It would thicken very soon. And then burn if she wasn’t careful.
Yellow. Daffodils in her mother’s garden. Sunshine on a cloudless day. A triad of canaries singing. Feathers. Yellow feathers. Four feathers. Were they four white feathers?
Debbie shied her feet and refocused her eyes. Four white feathers. Yes.
Each one came in a box individually. Alone. A knock at the door and doom hung heavier in the air. Debbie watched from the corner as her brother sank further and further within himself, tears rolling silently down his cheeks. He barely spoke since coming home, but the rumors had preceded him. It didn’t matter what he said the real story was. No one believed him. It was more dramatic to believe the rumors.
Being small and generally quiet, Debbie had hidden herself in Father’s cupboard the day before the feathers came. The conversation had been carried out in hushed, frantic whispers, the crying was done together in mutual commiseration, and then Father had said with finality that Patrick sneaking off to South America during the night was the only way. Mama cried more then, and Debbie realized, due to the way Mama looked so heartbroken, that they wouldn’t see Patrick ever again after that night.
The yellow liquid no left trailing marks behind the spoon. Debbie moved the pot off the fire with a sigh.
So many years had passed since those white feathers. A lifetime since she had thought of those memories.
She poured the liquid into the pudding cups and waiting in silence as the top cooled into a smooth seal. She wondered if Patrick still liked pudding. Did they have pudding in South America? Did he marry? Did he start speaking again? Debbie smacked her lips and moved her mouth, forming silent words. He had always spoken for her, stood up for her, until he left for the war.
A soft sight flew out of her mouth. As though the yellow canary had nested there and just now escaped. But it was no use. Just as it was no use for Patrick to speak up for himself. Speaking was fleeting and there was no sense in bothering.
She set a cup of pudding in front of mama and gave her a pat on the head. Mama stuck in her spoon and smiled, showing her missing tooth and the sadness that had never left her eyes.
“Lemon pudding,” she said, her voice crackling. Then a lone tear rolled down her dry, wrinkled cheeks and Debbie nodded. Just as they tasted the pudding at the same, they both caught a glimpse of the paper calendar date and froze, spoons midair. Like canaries frozen in flight. They had forgotten consciously but not subconsciously, never in their hearts. It was the birthday of the one they spoke of in town as though he were dead.
Debbie swallowed the lemon pudding with a hard gulp, her vision blurring before she pushed aside the tears. A bird landed on the windowsill and mama took her first bite, her teeth massaging the pudding as though it needed chewing.
“It was the right decision, Debbie,” she finally said. “It was the only decision.”