A few minutes earlier we had stood in the living room of Supergenius HQ arguing about what to do about a dead bird. I argued in favor of burial, she was in favor of trash.

There must of been a look on my face that won her over. “You really want to bury it, don’t you?”
I nodded my head.
“Okay, let’s go.”

So there she was bent over in the grass on her hands and knees, a hot wind blowing through the humid night which smelled like the lilacs on the tree in the neighbor’s yard. I stared down at the dead bird, his two toothpick legs, mangled body.

“This is probably a bad time to start singing I see London, I see France,” I said.
“Uh, yeah.” She continued digging.

Bob Marley was singing in my head, Don’t worry about a thing. I said every little thing is gonna be all right.

“Well, there.” FFJ stood and brushed the grass from her knees and handed the yellow shovel to me. “Do you want to say a prayer?”
“I’m not the praying type.” Bob Marley continued, Singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true. This is my message to you-ou-ou. “But thank you.”

Now my the poor little bird is in the ground and this morning as I drank my coffee before the Tibbles arrived, I realized the mourning dove was silent. Maybe for today, he is not so forlorn.

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Since the bird has been preoccupying my thoughts I decided this morning was the morning I was going to bury it. So armed with Nolie’s yellow plastic shovel, a plastic Target bag, and a steely resolve soaked with coffee, I set out to put the poor thing to rest. The sun was shining and the neighbors had all already left for work.

Oh no! As I write this, there is some sort of gardening implement combing the area where the dead bird is. This is a Bobcat-type machine that features a wheel with big metal spikes of death trailing behind it. I am afraid to look. But I have to look.

I looked. The bird is still lying there in one piece. But it sounds like big metal spikes of doom is returning for round two. Argh! And he’s going around the pine trees this time.

I looked again, the bird is still there.

Anyway, I tried to bury it under the tree this morning, but my attempt left me on my knees yakking coffee in the grass. I’m not sure why I thought I’d have the cajones to bury a dead bird. As far as I know, I’ve never touched something that was dead. In fact, at any wake or funeral I’m generally the person the furthest from the body and closest to the door, the one with the barely disguised look of horror as I watch people kiss their loved ones goodbye for the last time.

Fuck, I need a Valium and a plan B.

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I am not sure how the bird got tangled in the string and stuck swinging from the branch, but there it is, the saddest thing. The string is wrapped around his wings. It’s as though it is suspended there by its shoulders, the little beak resting on his chest, little bird feet dangling about six inches off the ground.

When I first noticed it on Monday, I figured the death was pretty recent and a neighborhood pet or critter would come along and take care of it. Then when the lawn care people came to cut the lawns yesterday I thought they’d take care of it.

The little bird is still swinging there. Knowing the bird is there makes the cry of the mourning dove who lives near by sound even more forlorn. Last night as we sat on my front porch watching the Tibbles eat sandwiches I asked Sister #2 what I should do about.

“Just leave it,” she said. “Let nature take its course.”
“It seems disrespectful,” I said.
“It’s probably fake.”
“No, it’s real.”

Max volunteered to go poke it with a stick, but I wouldn’t let him. Not only did I not want the three Tibbles following him over there, but if I were swinging dead from a tree I wouldn’t want to be poked with a stick. After his parents and the Tibbles left, he went over and verified that it was real.

“It’s real,” he shouted from across the street.
“I know,” I said.
“It’s really dead too,” Jaycie said, as they walked back over.

Now, the bird just swings there and I don’t know what to do about it.

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