Best, Pet Bird

Our bird died without warning yesterdayI found him, slack mouthed, eyes partedbut unmoving, breast still beneath full feathers with toescurled, as if gripping the perch outside as he always did onwarm days. The other bird was acting strange all day, I didn’tinvestigate the unusual sounds or why I needed to retrieve himonly to return to a locked cage. Little Houdini, unexplainablebody sliding through spaces meant to imprison him.My daughter cried out to me,Mommy, I think Cheep Cheep is sick or tired.He’s stared and stared at me until he needed to lie down.I found the bird there, blue and white feathers sleekagainst a hollow frame, an empty shell of bird,the leftover pet suit we came to know as ours.I didn’t mourn for this bird—its aching bodyunable to speak out and say I am ailing,molted feathers resting beneath it as ifits own unneeded extensions were alwayspurposeful—plucked and placed below forwhen he decided to make a bed of them—a blanket amongst seeds and stems of millet,his boneyard of items waiting for a second purpose.When I removed him from the cage, the other birdsquawked wildly, in grief or anger or protest,his puffs of downward air created downy swirlsof plucked under-feathers, memories soon to be removed,cage sanitized as a precaution. Animals say goodbye totheir mates and their friends in much simpler waysthan we do—singing their souls out of discardedbodies, then singing to them in longing—He was still warm when I moved and buried him, heatpermeated the towel as if to set fire to my maternal treason.His friend hasn’t stopped singing his song, and I can imaginewhat he’s saying. Little bird, old friend, lookedstraight into the eyes of that girl and dropped dead.