Brown Bird XXXI

I woke up at 11 and panicked. I looked at my phone to find no missed calls, texts, or voicemails. I called them, asking, “Is she there?” I knew it was today, I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. “No, sir, sorry…nothing yet,” was all she said. Suddenly, I questioned the vision of the attendant gently wrapping you up, and closing the lid. Suddenly, I questioned watching your paw being pressed into clay. I rolled over into the corner and curled up with your blanket thinking if I could just get you home, maybe these mornings could get a little easier, maybe the evenings could have at least a few less tears. I woke again, three hours later to a voicemail that just said, she’s here—she’s just arrived. I called they assured me that you weren’t there yesterday and had not, in fact, overlooked you. I showered and drove over to get you. I don’t know why I showered first, it wasn’t their opinion I cared about, and the opinion I did care about—never cared about things like that. I walked in and said, “I’m here to pick up Lady Bird.” It took the girl a few moments to realize I wasn’t referring to day care, and for a moment I felt bad about her knowing—not that there was anything I could do about it anyway. I presented my receipt—my receipt, a record of exchange of goods and services. Maybe we really are doomed…maybe we deserve to be.

I took you to the car and struggled with whether you would’ve wanted the front seat or the back, until a found a brown bird’s feather wedged in the passenger window’s weather striping. I buckled you in and took you home. For the first time since you were little, you rode up front. I knew you always wanted too, but you never would—you could never get comfortable in the front. It was heavier than I expected it to be. I don’t know why. They fucked up the spelling on every single label and I laughed a little knowing how fitting it was—even though a small part of me wanted to be upset. I know it’s not you. If anything, it made me smile when I opened the box and noticed just how much care had been given in placing you inside. I decided that was all that actually mattered at the end of the day. I set you up where you can keep an eye on things, and put your teddy bears with you. It’s a perfect spot for you, center of attention as always. I wouldn’t allow anything less. The box is small enough to fit comfortably in my bag too, until I can get you back to the mountain. Either way, you’re home now. I had hoped that it would make me feel better, but I don’t think it does. The hope that you would receive some modicum of dignity was fulfilled. And…you are home…and I’m grateful…but you’re still gone, and this place is still…so very quiet.