Above Ground

She was an investment-- a friend that could be purchased with cash and lured into affection with edible reinforcement. Her presence was supposed to be my salvation. I got her in anticipation of my friends dropping off the face of the planet in the desperate hope that her fluffy plumage and bright song would somehow take their place. For the week that she managed to stay alive she did an excellent job. When I came home from class, there she was in her little white cage, pipping and flitting lightly from one perch to the next.

"You got awhat?" my sister exclaimed when I told her of my newest purchase. "A bird? Why a bird?"

Every weekend I volunteer at the local Petsmart and assist with pet adoptions. In my downtime I like to investigate the store, mostly hoping that some new bunnies will arrive, but always making a stop in the bird section to watch the Finches. They are tiny creatures, very versatile, highly colored, and, as I came to discover, each harboring its own unique personality. When I found the little birdcage with the curling white metalwork, I could not resist. I bought the cage, and a little finch to put inside it. I hung the cage from my ceiling and watched the antics of Pip the Finch while I wrote papers, brushed my teeth, talked on the phone, and ate breakfast.

Two nights ago I came home late and crept up to Pip's cage to check on her. I expected to see her sleeping in her little nest. She'd look up at me with a cocked head and sparkling black eyes, I would coo at her, she'd coo back and we'd both go to sleep. Instead I saw her lying on the bottom of her cage, her feet straight in the air, and her feathers askew like she'd just pecked a light socket.

My shaking fingers dialed a number on my phone.

"Hello?" the warm voice of a dear friend was only slightly comforting to my hysterical and slightly dramatic personality.
"Ahhhhh! Pip is dead!! (sob sob sob)"
The mellow voice on the other end tried to talk me through the process.
"You need to take her out of the cage, wrap her up, and put her in a box."
(Sniff sniff)
"Did you do it?"

I never realized how afraid I was of dead things until Pip expired unexpectedly. When I was younger I would pick rotting animals up off the road and bury them with my bare hands. Since that time my resilience has started to wane. I picked up a pencil and poked Pip with the eraser.
"I'm afraid she's going to wake up and start flying around."
The voice on the other line was silent for a moment. "She isn't going to wake up, Jos. Just pick her up and take care of her body."
I tried maneuvering the pencil so I didn't have to touch the tiny, lifeless body.
"Gah! Why can't I do it? It's so hard! I wish I had gloves."
"Jos, just imagine you're not doing it, okay? Just think, it's MY hand picking up Pip."
Grimacing slightly, I reached my friend's hand into the cage and gently picked up my little dead Pip. Her body was almost entirely weightless and she felt soft, downy, and fragile. Using the pencil eraser I stroked her belly. "Oh Pip. Oh Pip, Pip, Pip."

I wrapped her up in a little blanket and placed her in the box-- her tiny sarcophagus, a pygmy coffin. As I began to seal her tomb I stopped. Her left wing, extended, looked flexed, like it could flap and fly about the room on its own accord. I kept the box open all night just in case she decided to ditch her funeral and fly away.