pretty in pink

Dad put pink flamingos in the yard on the side of the garage. As a joke. In October. I keep forgetting to tell E. They've been there since fall crept in, standing stick straight checking in on the R's each time they sit down at their round table. Aside from being tacky, those pink plastic lawn ornaments are now fading from the timid rays of the winter sun as it sluggishly rises over snow-covered rooftops and finds its way onto our fair-feathered friends. "I don't mind. They're just a reminder that it's warm somewhere else," was E's mum's response when I apologized for my Dad's silliness. Ever since, I don't mind seeing that small pink parade against the winter white landscape. In fact, they remind me that E just so happens to be off somewhere warm. Perhaps there will be a ceremonial Uprooting of the Flamingos upon her return. We'll have a Double Bird Funeral, just like old times. Romney will be the preacher, dressed in black, presiding at our little backyard bird service. E will give a melancholy yet inspirational life sketch, tears will be shed, and we'll mark the spot where the flamingos once stood to remind us of warmer days, in warmer places, when E was far far away serving the people of Indonesia.