On Monday morning, I woke up and smelled blueberry pancakes.

My mother (who died two years ago) was an excellent pancake maker. She preferred pancakes for dinner, but could be coaxed into making them for breakfast.

And so when I smelled the pancakes, I thought: my mother is down in my kitchen! This thought was followed by the sound of wings, the purposeful, studied displacement of air. I looked up and through the skylight, and saw hundreds and hundreds of dark birds flying above me.

It was the day after Valentine’s Day.

And I took both these things (the blueberry pancakes that weren’t there and the black-winged birds that were) as visitations, valentines.

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