Little Bird

The morning began with the angry cry of the alarm clock, wrenching her from a deep slumber, then the abrupt weight of her dog clambering over her, claws digging into her ribcage, as she characteristically pounced on her chest, which knocked any residual grogginess out of her: it was 5:00 A.M. She let her pup outside to disturb the pre-dawn stillness—white fur flashing against the darkness, nose to the ground, searching for any comers in the night—while she scraped together their breakfasts.

They’d eat in silence, her: eggs and toast, her companion: kibble and a raw egg, before she put together her supplies for the outing. Into her bag she shoved a blanket, granola bars, two water bottles, a collapsible dog bowl, a small black sketchbook, and a black, zippered pouch, then pulled the drawstring closed with some effort. She donned thermal leggings under her jeans, worn wool socks, and her grandfather’s heavy Carhartt coat before setting out, putting on a hat as the old screen door banged shut behind her.

Her small backpack bounced behind her with every hurried stride she took, and ahead zig-zagged her black and white Aussie, Bellamy, running off the path to sniff and explore, small ears bouncing as she did. Bellamy was the only friend she had willing to join her on these early morning treks. She hardly heard the leaves crunching underfoot as she marched down the narrow but well-worn path winding through the trees. Light had not yet begun to peek over the horizon, but the clearing was nearly a mile away. Time was of the essence if she wanted to reach it before the sun rose enough to wake the forest up.

They reached the clearing in about fifteen minutes, according to the time on her phone: it was now 5:40 A.M. She tugged the blanket out of her bag, shaking it as she pulled so as not to dump the remaining contents, before flipping the brown wool fabric onto the earth and pulling the edges until it was somewhat smooth. After plopping cross-legged into the center of the blanket, she upended the backpack, spilling its possessions unceremoniously. Bellamy took her place, curled up and napping, against her right leg. She then pulled the sketchbook and the zippered pouch into her lap, opening the little black book to its next empty page and setting it on her shins, and organizing her drawing supplies on the ground before her, checking the points of her pencils before arranging them in numerical order and setting the sharpener just so. She picked up a pencil and placed a heavily used kneaded eraser in the crack of the sketchbook.

She sat motionless in the crepuscular stillness. Slowly the birds began to wake and harmonize their jubilant greetings of the day. A flash of blue caught her eye, crisp and bright and almost turquoise, a sparrow sized bird perched nearby. “Indigo Bunting,” she could almost hear the smile in her grandfather’s hushed voice, as he tried not to startle it while she worked to sketch it before he inevitably did. She imagined him pointing the bird out, his wonderfully wrinkled hand covered in age spots directing her gaze as it did when she was younger. “Oh, Little Bird,” he would say, “He’s just passing through. But how marvelous we got to witness him on his travels.” She was always his Little Bird.

Before he got sick, her grandfather used to bring her to this spot to watch the birds. He relished in the seasonal migrations—spring always brought bright new friends to admire. He loved them all: the bay breasted warblers, black and grey and white with the most perfect shade of brick red on their chests and head spots; the blue-grey gnatcatchers, small blue birds with a perpetually angry looking black unibrow; the golden-winged warblers, grey birds with spots so yellow they looked like they could be painted of freshly made lemon zest.

She spent the next few hours sketching and reminiscing, losing herself in memories of being Grandpa’s Little Bird again. Her phone’s alarm went off: 9:30 A.M. The funeral was today. It was time to get ready. She patted her pup awake, so she could pack up. Haphazardly, she shoved everything back in her bag, only this time it didn’t fit. She grumbled as she tightened the drawstring anyway and started marching home. Bellamy ran off path again, sprinting through the trees, blissfully unaware of the austerity of the day.

The house came into view, her grandfather’s house. She despised it now. What used to feel like a haven was now anything but. Every mug, every newspaper, every miniscule detail felt like a blow that knocked the wind out of her. She couldn’t breathe without smelling something that reminded her of him: his room, his clothes, the house plants he tended so carefully—the scent of the lavender was overwhelming most days, and she choked on the scent of it when she walked in the door.

She wouldn’t linger, she showered quickly and donned her black dress and sweater, attempting futilely to lint-roll the dog hairs off—Grandpa would understand, she mused. Slipping into her black flats, she leashed up Bellamy and the pair headed out: it was 10:15 A.M. to her rusty 1996 Ford Bronco. Bell sat proudly in the passenger seat, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, ears flapping in the wind. Her Australian Shepherd was the last family she had left, a gift from her grandfather her senior year of high school. Three years ago, he had come home with a cardboard box, “I brought a present for you,” he proclaimed, a puckish grin on his face and eyes glinting with mirth. He had hoped to make her guess, but the inhabitant of the box he held yelped impatiently instead. Their neighbor’s dog had had a litter of puppies, and the neighbor was giving them away. The black and white puppy and she quickly became inseparable.

The funeral home was stuffy, hot, and entirely too small for the amount of people trying to squeeze their way inside. Most of their small, rural town had come to pay their respects. Her grandfather had been the overly helpful owner of the local pet and farm supply store. Many had stopped by the store after hearing he had passed to offer donations to help pay for his funeral, but in typical fashion, he’d taken the burden on himself and paid for it in advance to make sure she wouldn’t have to worry. She stood near the ornate casket silently wondering what her grandfather would make of all the fuss over him. “There’s too many flowers,” he’d grumble, “All I need is a pine box and a priest.”

But when it came time to put the casket in the ground, the crowd dispersed. She was left alone, with only the priest, the funeral director, the grave digger, and Bellamy sitting serenely at her feet. She stood there, staring at the ground long after the three men had left. She was alone. It hadn’t hit her quite until the hole was filled, but seeing the cold earth close over him and claim him ripped a hole in her, a deep, aching void. She checked her phone: 4:32 P.M. Maybe it was time to go home. They had skipped lunch and would need dinner soon.

Once home, she fed Bellamy, but instead of making herself food, she began perusing through the items in her grandfather’s desk, searching for an old photograph, something to hold onto. But what she happened upon was a life insurance policy—$20,000. He had always promised her a way out of their little town, a life beyond their small world, but he had never expounded on how it would be accomplished. But as always, he made sure she would be taken care of, in life as in death.

She sold the house and the store. She packed up her belongings and loaded them and Bellamy into her Bronco. She slammed the back door shut and checked the time: 11:00A.M. And when she looked up, there sat a little blue bird on her open driver’s side door, it chirped at her and flew off, only this time grandpa’s Little Bird would also be going on her own little journey.