It was one of those
sunny days you dream will last forever. Gulls spiralled effortlessly on unseen
thermals and the air buzzed with stifling hazy brilliance. Somewhere, someone was listening to the Beach Boys.
I sat on the doorstep drinking cold beer and
watching the children play in the yard. They were absorbed in sowing dreams;
digging holes and carefully planting invisible seeds. My wards for the day were
my girlfriend’s kids; a ragamuffin boy with wingnut ears called Ross and his
runny nosed, pouty lipped cherubim sister Kerrie. It was Kerrie who seemed to
officiate over the cultivation, holding the watering can and instructing Ross
in the digging of holes with a small trowel. Both were smeared in mud which had
caked dry into their clothes and over their smudged faces.
Suddenly Ross stood erect and picked his way
through the flower beds treading on a few sleeping bluebells and pansies on the
way. He dropped his trowel and stooped to pick something up and made his way
back. He was now completely absorbed in the object he cradled in his hands, he
had found a dead bird. He approached me on the doorstep and held out a dead
Starling; his black plumage reflected with green and purplish metallic
sheen in the bright sunlight, his breast was spangled with small pale creamy
spots, and his bill was lemon yellow. He was altogether beautiful and he was
altogether dead.
“Fix him” Ross said.
I smiled and told him regretfully that I could
not. Ross had a concerned expression of deep felt compassion on his streaked
and muddy face, he was not about to take no for an answer,
“Fix him” he implored.
“I can’t” I replied, “Once a thing is dead,
there is nothing can be done to fix it.”
Ross was unconvinced and
holding the bird out to me said,
“Then take him to Kevin.”
“Kevin?” I enquired.
“Take it to Kevin,” repeated Ross.
He expected me to take
possession of the bird, which I did reluctantly. Ross knew nothing of death or
of germs – I was a little ashamed of my aversion to the poor creature.
“Who is Kevin?” I enquired.
Ross rolled his eyes and
told me in a slightly exasperated tone what everyone else patently knew,
“When you die,” he explained patiently, “You
go to Kevin and he fixes you and sends you home!”
I smiled and Ross did
too, now that I understood it would surely only be a short time before his
little friend would be restored to health and on his way home. I sat there
before the expectant gaze of brother and sister at a complete loss for words.
I knelt before the grave of ‘Birdie’ flanked
by the two solemn mourners. Ross seemed quite sad, but Kerrie appeared more
curious than sad,
“Will he grow again?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I replied.
Ross gave me a quizzical
look.
“Maybe his soul just flew away and he’ll be
reborn as a baby bird in another nest somewhere else.”
This answer seemed to
cheer them and after crudely replanting some flowers on Birdie’s grave they had
returned to their games having forgotten the entire episode. At least that’s
what I thought, until a couple of weeks later when Ross called me excitedly outside.
There on a fence post at the end of the garden a starling sat singing his heart
out in the afternoon sun, “It’s
Birdie,” beamed Ross, “he’s fixed.”
That was a nice little story. I one day hope to go to Kevin as well.
ReplyDeleteI hope you make it, but not too soon.
Delete