Smeared blood, shredded feathers. Clearly, the bird was dead. But wait the slight fluctuation of its chest, the slow blinking of its shiny black eyes. No, it was alive. I had been typing an English essay when I heard my dog’s loud barks and the flutter of wings. I had turned slightly at the noise and had found the barely breathing bird in front of me.

Death. Dare I say it out loud? Here, in my own home?

Within seconds, my reflexes kicked in. Get over the shock. Gloves, napkins, towels. Band-aid? How does one heal a bird? I rummaged through the house, keeping a wary eye on my dog. Donning yellow rubber gloves, I tentatively picked up the bird. Never mind the dog’s barks and protesting scratches, you need to save the bird. You need to ease its pain. But my mind was blank. I stroked the bird with a paper towel to clear away the blood, see the wound. The wings were crumpled, the feet mangled. A large gash extended close to its jugular rendering its breathing shallow, unsteady. The rising and falling of its small breast slowed. Was the bird dying? No, please, not yet. 

Why was this feeling so familiar, so tangible?

Oh. Yes. The long drive, the green hills, the white church, the funeral. The Indo-Christian mass, the resounding amens, the flower arrangements. Me, crying silently, huddled in the corner. The Massey family huddled around the casket. Apologies. So many apologies. Finally, the body lowered to rest. The body. Sahil Elson Massey. Still familiar, still tangible.

Hugging Sahil, I was a ghost, a statue. My brain and my body competed. Emotion wrestled with fact. Sahil Elson Massey, aged 18, my friend of four years, had died in a car crash on Sep. 12, 2020. Sahil was dead, I thought. Dead.

But I could still save the bird. My frantic actions heightened my senses, mobilized my spirit. Cupping the bird, I ran outside, hoping the cool air outdoors would suture every wound, cause the bird to miraculously fly away. Yet there lay the bird in my hands, still gasping, still dying. Bird, human, human, bird. What was the difference? Both were the same. Mortal.

But couldn’t I do something? Hold the bird longer, de-claw the dog? I wanted to go to my bedroom, confine myself to tears, replay my memories, never come out. The bird’s warmth faded away. Its heartbeat slowed along with its breath. For a long time, I stared thoughtlessly at it, so still in my hands.

Slowly, I dug a small hole in the black earth. As it disappeared under handfuls of dirt, my own heart grew stronger, my own breath more steady. The wind, the sky, the dampness of the soil on my hands whispered to me, “The bird is dead. Sahil has passed. But you are alive.” My breath, my heartbeat, my sweat sighed back, “I am alive. I am alive. I am alive.”

Smeared blood, shredded feathers. Clearly, the bird was dead. But wait the slight fluctuation of its chest, the slow blinking of its shiny black eyes. No, it was alive. I had been typing an English essay when I heard my dog’s loud barks and the flutter of wings. I had turned slightly at the noise and had found the barely breathing bird in front of me.

Death. Dare I say it out loud? Here, in my own home?

Within seconds, my reflexes kicked in. Get over the shock. Gloves, napkins, towels. Band-aid? How does one heal a bird? I rummaged through the house, keeping a wary eye on my dog. Donning yellow rubber gloves, I tentatively picked up the bird. Never mind the dog’s barks and protesting scratches, you need to save the bird. You need to ease its pain. But my mind was blank. I stroked the bird with a paper towel to clear away the blood, see the wound. The wings were crumpled, the feet mangled. A large gash extended close to its jugular rendering its breathing shallow, unsteady. The rising and falling of its small breast slowed. Was the bird dying? No, please, not yet. 

Why was this feeling so familiar, so tangible?

Oh. Yes. The long drive, the green hills, the white church, the funeral. The Indo-Christian mass, the resounding amens, the flower arrangements. Me, crying silently, huddled in the corner. The Massey family huddled around the casket. Apologies. So many apologies. Finally, the body lowered to rest. The body. Sahil Elson Massey. Still familiar, still tangible.

Hugging Sahil, I was a ghost, a statue. My brain and my body competed. Emotion wrestled with fact. Sahil Elson Massey, aged 18, my friend of four years, had died in a car crash on Sep. 12, 2020. Sahil was dead, I thought. Dead.

But I could still save the bird. My frantic actions heightened my senses, mobilized my spirit. Cupping the bird, I ran outside, hoping the cool air outdoors would suture every wound, cause the bird to miraculously fly away. Yet there lay the bird in my hands, still gasping, still dying. Bird, human, human, bird. What was the difference? Both were the same. Mortal.

But couldn’t I do something? Hold the bird longer, de-claw the dog? I wanted to go to my bedroom, confine myself to tears, replay my memories, never come out. The bird’s warmth faded away. Its heartbeat slowed along with its breath. For a long time, I stared thoughtlessly at it, so still in my hands.

Slowly, I dug a small hole in the black earth. As it disappeared under handfuls of dirt, my own heart grew stronger, my own breath more steady. The wind, the sky, the dampness of the soil on my hands whispered to me, “The bird is dead. Sahil has passed. But you are alive.” My breath, my heartbeat, my sweat sighed back, “I am alive. I am alive. I am alive.”