It is sunny and cold.  

Birds sing in the tree outside my window. Their tune is mournful, as though a great love has flown away. This dirge beckons to memories deep within my mind – memories better left in the past, buried without headstone or any marking announcing their existence.  

They, like Loki, use trickery. My sorrows murmur, “Just for a moment, then I promise I’ll cease.”  Memories of pain are better left forgotten, and memories of heartbreak should be sealed away inside unknown crypts.

Yet, they are akin to Frankenstein’s monster, enticing me to pursue further than advised. Without warning, they instill a sorrow so deep it seems my very bones weep as I unwittingly, unassumingly, accept the burden of Remembering. Their true intent is revealed as an unyielding hand pushes me down to my knees, crippling me. The weight they convey is as the weight of the heavens on Atlas’ shoulders, and to step out from under them is nigh impossible. Tears stream, bones break, and I cry out for mercy. 

It is sunny and cold.

I wonder, “How can a birdsong entice such feeling?” There seems to be a type of sorcery in their twittering…or are these memories not buried as deeply as I thought? 

If birds can sing such a melancholic tune, why can I not sing in my own suffering? Am I less than the sparrow, that I break at such a simple thing as Memory? 

The song fades, but the memories persist. If birds can sing their sorrow, surely, I can sing mine, too.