Bluebird

 I remember a sleeping bag I had as a kid

A scene of a man hunting ducks with a dog

Printed over and over again on the flannel lining

Sometimes I walk into a place or situation

And I feel like I dreamt it long ago

Maybe sleeping under that sleeping bag

Inhaling the musty scent of the old flannel

While the gibbous moon shone in through

The plastic-covered window

Making the unfinished drywall glow

The wind would hush through the firs outside

Mingling with the steady breathing

Of my stepsister in the top bunk

And I would wake

Not knowing that in a dozen years or so

I’d see the house on the side of the road

With the half-buried wagon wheel

At the foot of the driveway

That my sleeping mind

Had just shown me

Now

Setting up our Coleman tent on the gravel campsite

I unzip the bag

That holds my wife’s own childhood sleeping bag

And I notice

That the inside is printed

With hunting men and dogs

A bluebird watches me

As I stop for a moment

He has been visiting our site

Never staying long enough

For us to get the camera on him

After he flies away this time

I spread the bag on the air mattress that

Leaves only enough room in the tent

For our duffel bags

That night

By the campfire

I tell my wife of a secret shame

She sets down her wine glass

Leaves her canvas chair

Crouches near where I am sitting

To comfort me as I weep

Her glass will still be on the table in the morning

I’ll see it as I watch

For the bluebird

Gabe Gregoire lives and works in Virginia Beach, Virginia. His essays, reviews, and poems have appeared in The Maine Times, The Thunder Child, and The Gnu, respectively.