BIRDIE SLEEPS. | By: Terry Collett | | Category: Short Story - Death Bookmark and Share


Birdie sleeps, Clare said.
Bird’s dead, Granddad said,

Taking the still warm
Bird from the child’s small

Hands where it had been
Cupped like some precious

Jewel. Dead? Clare asked
Confused, watching her

Granddad’s huge hands take
The bird from her view.

Is that what all the
Small birdies do? Yeah

All go that way, Clare,
All go to the big

Maker in the sky.
Clare bit her tiny

Fingernail asking,
Why? Well kid, all things

Have to go sometimes:
Birds, cats, dogs, horses,

Me, you, Grandma, and
The old guy who sits

Outside the drugstore
Begging for dough; all

Got to go to the
Big maker in the

Big blue sky when their
Number’s up. Clare sat

Wondering where the
Birdie had gone. Had

Granddad put it in
His pocket or where?

She continued to
Wonder with her blue

Eyed stare. Is the small
Birdie in your big

Coat pocket or is
It someplace elsewhere?

She softly pleaded.
It’s tucked away in

My old coat pocket
Along with my pipe

Tobacco and my
 White peppermint creams.

I will bury it
Later, Granddad said,

With my all broken
Promises and your

Grandma’s dreams. Clare looked
At her empty hands,

The warmth of the bird
Still there, it had left

Two small brown feathers
There for her to share.

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