Dame

Swept into the barn by the wind lay leaves that were christened into the engineered wood flooring. Christened into almost a pile like that of holy water in a font. He does use it to bathe and that’s the issue according to everyone. I wouldn’t let her die. Knowing what I know, you wouldn’t sweep away your barn leaves, either!

Inactive on the boards rest the feathers of a gray named Dame that remain today. Inactive in a way that a body expires at the altar. Her body expired at the altar too and because of this, you wouldn’t take the ground’s ability to fly from it, either. Each feather you enable, you are closer to helping let the crust meet the clouds, further fusing together the light and the darkness, birthing gray.

But this gray is particular, though; it’s not the type to paint your Seattle sky or gloss over your second eye when the colors blur during cries. This gray makes an owl.

“He’s actually the only, last one in our biggest shed. Before Mom grew her own wings, she rid our barn of twenty-two, leaving two. They belong to Dame. He came from a French breeder, hence the name.”

“Oh, every night, he whines and whines, for he was her favorite and she was his. We don’t bring him inside the house because we don’t have a space for him.”

“It’s baggage, you know? He probably wouldn’t let us sleep.”

“But for him, he has a place to weep and I promised I'd never sweep. If you had known what he’d seen that day, you’d never sweep, either!”

White was an egg that soon revealed gray but one day shone a ray of blue. Hazel eyes of the woman looked up to the sky, waiting for the nurse’s queue. Dame is very well-mannered because she was the best trainer; he knows the county's outs and ins. Air is postal because of geographical curses on our land.

We run the main office, a beat down shed. Locals parade for the mailmen, waving ahead. Twelve for the entire town is a surplus but Dame still sparks outrage on his off days. He isn't only my mother's favorite but I loved ALL owls.

Her favorite deliverer etched her closer to her own halt with each delivered note. Every letter from Nurse Francis made Mother more and more fermented. When humanity took the command of conveying the town's people's dramas, Mom rid our barn from all but one; Dame.

"He works for her, yes but not only a servant, he's a dearest."

No relationship was loyal like theirs. For what he is, he knew the smell of overly brewed wine really well. He knew of her unwilling effervescence. Long after, I took it into my own brush to keep her alive for him. I. Helped. Him. And me. Strands, feathers from old brothers and sisters, fronds, all left for him to die in, even though the day is left to come. I knew what he was going through, I felt his remorse. He killed his master and somehow that left him nothing before I gave him something.

Perched on a perch is old gray three feet from a shrine I swept below. To the locals who heard from a birdie, not him, our hearts were doomed to blow. Every letter meant another visit for Mom and treatment would buoy away at her waves.

Eventually she never came back. A dynastic legend but we was far from urban. Dame and I never spoke the same language but our sympathy was genius. I hired my own Dame but like me was the same and I haven't left the property since. Knowing the whispers of the village, you wouldn't leave, either! And Dame too chooses to stay, he could leave if he may, but he still hasn't flown away.