Little Friend by Neekta B.
The first time I see a bird again, it has been nearly 18 years since my death, and I am scared.
Death stole songbirds from me when she stole my life, and my art, and the warmth of the sun.
And yet, here is a songbird. Breathing, chirping, living. And here I am, dead, dead, and dead.
It doesn’t make sense.
“Hello there, little friend,” I coo at the bird. (I still remember some of what friendship is, though I will forget soon. I grieve for it while I am still able.) The bird flies away from me, as if realizing how impossible this scene is.
“Come back to visit, little friend,” I tell it. “It gets quiet without you.”
–––——
My 18th deathday nears, and I prepare to give my speech. In it, I renounce the world of the living. I accept death with open arms. I acknowledge that I have been freed from the torment of the living. I thank death for the miracle of its touch.
I do not mention how chilly it is, nor do I reminisce on my old life, nor do I attempt to hold onto its echoes. I have been freed. I will be freed.
Freedom, it seems, is a very lonely endeavor.
–––——
The second time I see the bird, only a few days remain before my 18th deathday, and I am tired. Still, its strangely cheerful little trill brings me back from the brink of sleep.
“Hello again, little one!” I greet it. This time, it seems more sociable, willing to hop near me. “Oh, what’s that you carry?”
The bird drops a sliver of paper next to my hand in response. I open it, witnessing a tangle of words unfolding on the page.
I struggle on my first read, and my second, and my third. Only on my fourth read through do I realize what I am holding: something just as impossible as its carrier.
A poem.
–––——
The third time I see the bird, only hours remain before my 18th deathday, and I am cold. I sit in front of my mirror, desperately practicing the lines of my speech. They ring empty every time. Hollow and dead in a way the poem wasn’t.
The bird is happy to jump onto my hand today, giving me another gift. A piece of sheet music.
“Thank you, little birdie,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
–––——
It is my 18th deathday, and as I stand in front of the crowd, I do not see the songbird, but I think of it.
I listen attentively as everyone before me impassively recites their lines. Not upset, nor distressed, just there.
All too soon, it’s my turn. Carefully, I open my mouth to recite my words, but my tongue stills in my mouth.
I remember my bird. My little friend.
And I begin to sing. And for the first time in 18 years, warmth blooms inside me, and I am sheltered from the cold.