en paz descante

A quiet stucco corner, a simple painted chunk of marble, and a flea market find mark Rory's grave.

Our pocket parrot, Rory, passed away of a heart ailment nearly a year ago. She passed in the winter, six-inches into a two-foot snow. I wrapped her in a couple absorbent paper towels, stuffed her in an Earl Grey tea tin and tucked her next to the ice trays in my freezer.

"Look at the way her eyes bug out!" Marty pulled her out every time a friend visited. "Go ahead. Touch her. You can make her toes move."

After a few months the novelty wore off, and Rory's cryogenic perch gathered frost. Today, on a hunt for freezer-burnt popsicles, Louis found her.

"Holy moly, mom! We still have Rory in the back of the freezer!"

"Do her eyes still bug out?" Marty yanked the lid off the tin. The once-carefully wrapped paper towels were covered with grimy fingerprints. "Yup."

We finally buried her today, in a morning glory-infested corner of the front yard. We painted her name in yellow tempura on a triangular chunk of found marble, and graced her grave with a brass Aztec shaman. Louis, Marty, and local boy Jake gave her full military rites with a 21-shot water gun salute as I warbled De Colores.

Marty waited for the big boys to shuffle back inside, then pointed to Rory's grave.

"Mom? Did she go to heaven when she died? Or just this moment, when we buried her?"

At that moment, a battered crow dipped low to the ground just a few feet away. He didn't curse, didn't offer a cold evil eye. He extended his feet as if to land, then pulled them close to his body with some kind of invisible prey. He bolted for the pure orange sun, for the falling leaves tinged with gold and auburn, for the woven New Mexican sky.

I shrugged my shoulders, and Marty joined me in another verse of Rory's song.

De colores, sí, de blanco y negro y rojo, y azul y castaño.
Son colores, son colores de gente que ríe, y estrecha la mano.
Son colores, son colores de gente que sabe de la libertad.

(from left) Marty, Jake, and Louis. Every bird deserves a 21-shot water gun salute.

Comments

[Heidi]

Lovely!

[lilalia]

I could hardly read because I was laughing so much. Oh, Rory, may your spirit fly free. Birdie, what a delightful story you told.

It reminded me of a turtle I put up in an vented area in our basement to hibernate one winter. A few months into later I came upon our two cats playing hockey with the mummified turtle shell. Tragic, but true.

[Miss T]

That was a beautiful way to honor your little friend's passing. Great story!

[Patia]

Wonderful story!

[Lloyd]

kinds gets ya.... right........ HERE!

;)

[Carroll]

I love that for a time she was a "must see" for young visitors. And a 21 water shoot salute? Perfect!

[john bell]

Thanks God, Rory wasn't a golden retriever. Would have made it awkward everytime you got ice cubes for a guest. :-0

[Chris]

Thankfully all of our deceased pets lately have been fish and hermit crabs... easily flushable and not requiring any long term preserving measures.

Glad to see you've got the website up and running.

[Rick]

A snappy salute to a life well lived.

(The two older boys appear to be out of uniform.)

[Birdie]

Well, every kid in school heard about the 21 shot water gun salute today. I had two teachers accost me about it.

"You kept a dead bird in your freezer for a year?!"

Uh, yeah.

Deadline tonight for my two Optic stories. Oh, that reminds me! The Optic now has most (if not all) of its stories online, finally. You can read my stuff every Thursday in Arts and Entertainment. It's mostly Who What When Where stuff, but hey, I might surprise ya from time to time!

Something that made me happy today: John Bell and family will be trekking this way over T-giving! YAY!!!! Can't wait!!!!!!

[Birdie]

I should add that my own students, when informed by Louis about the funeral, just upped their intense suspicion of me.

[Jen]

You are such a fabulous writer! Loved the story!