Life

I sat in my dirty, gray pickup truck parked under the shade of an old oak choked by ivy, smoking cigarettes before work. The warmth that late winter day, like a long desired kiss from a childhood crush. Maybe it was the flutter of wings, the deep caw of the crow, or the sharp chirps of the sparrows, but I looked out the window. Two sparrows fought a crow, defending their nest against a foe more than thrice their size, a black winged behemoth. After work, the sun was setting off to the west, painting the sky orange and the fading red of the lipstick my mom proudly wore when I was little. The nest had fallen on the silky concrete of the parking lot, and ants swarmed the bloated carcasses of the two baby birds crushed under the weight of a tire. Death ran his cold, bony fingers up the small of my back and the base of my neck, but I could not tear my eyes away. I remembered the dog I had as a child, and its entrails open on the side of the road. I couldn’t sleep that night. My parents refused to turn on the heater, and it was 64 degrees, inside. My baby sister was asleep, her blanket crumbled on the cold wooden floor, arms wrapped around her sides, shivering. I place the sheets just beneath her chin, and she sighs with content, a smile adorning her face. I stared outside into that bright moon, wondering about dead baby birds and dead puppy dogs, and sisters. Thinking “Funny how it works that way.”