The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Cardinal

Just under the shovel, the one we prop up against the garage so that we have easy access, was a flash of red. The wee one spotted it first; mesmerized, she stopped with the incessant chattering and became transfixed on it, her eyes focusing like the lens of a camera. I could see she was puzzled, intrigued, delighted and repulsed all at once.

"A cardinal", she said, softly, and I sucked in my breath as I approached where she stood, knowing that living birds never cower in corners.

Dead. His (it's a daddy bird, see? The bright red ones are always daddies, mom) legs were stretched out like knobby broomsticks, his eyes closed and peaceful. I had been worried that he'd be in pieces, the remnants of a cat feast, but he was whole and remarkably, untouched. M. came closer, the parent with the more accepting attitude about death, and he picked up the bird and inspected it with the eye of a surgeon. He discerned by the grey spots on the bird's chest that he simply died of old age, or whatever takes old birds. He'd likely hidden under the shovel, he'd said, and he was wistful about it, seemingly more understanding about the ends of things than I'll ever be. I thought about this. I've never seen the corpse of an animal that has died from agedness. They're different than we, they know when it's coming and they go and wait for it, alone. They don't want the mourners, nor do they want the ceremony of grief. What they want is to leave the world without witness, and most of them do it successfully. I know so many people whose old dogs or cats would suddenly vanish, never returning to the house for their designated dinner hour, never rubbing up against the legs unannouned, again. They instinctively know when the time is done, and they choose their dying place. There is no indignity, no fretting, just acceptance and grace. It's hard to be sad about it, really.

Of course, this bit of bright red death brought on the questions. The wee one has been curious about death the last few months, asking all sorts of provocative questions. Where do we go when we die? What happens? Will I never see you and daddy again if I die? I don't want to die! And every question wounds me deeply, because I don't want to think about it. I hate that it's what we all have in common. I hate that there are no guarantees. I hate the very thought of not being with my man and my wee child forever. I hold on to the belief that we'll always be together, forever, but there's the cynic/logical part of me which questions my more spiritual counterpart. To answer her questions requires certainty, because she feeds on that, and she always knows when I am not committed to an idea. Do I tell her what I believe, which negates the Catholic teachings she's receiving right now? I am a Catholic who has grown into questions, you see. I consider myself spiritual rather than religious, but I wanted her to be started on something firm, which is why I chose the Catholic school. If she decides it doesn't fit later on, I'll support that, but for now, I am hoping that the learning will be done there, the tidy answers given without hesitation. My world of possible life after death communication, reincarnation, spirituality, freedom and charted life paths will make no sense to her now, and it might not ever, so I am careful to give very short, sweet answers to placate her, particularly when her eyes well up with fear about losing me or her father. This is part of parenthood you're never really prepared for.

M. is better at it than I am. He is upbeat when he gives her an explanation, whereas my 'oh oh' meter spikes whenever she brings up the hard stuff, like how did you and daddy make me?, where did I come from?, is grandma and grandpa going to die soon?, do you and daddy kiss like on television?. I know my eyes widen with every single one, but I try to answer honestly, without going overboard on the details. M. simply smiles and gives a carefully worded sentence without even looking at her. I wish I could be like that.

He picked up the dead cardinal and placed it over near the fence by the side of the house. I worried about cats finding it there, but he said, matter-of-factly, that it wouldn't matter to the bird now, and that this is the cycle of life, after all.
I haven't looked to see if it's still there. I like death where I can't see it, frankly, and I'm grateful to all the animals for keeping it private.