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The bearable strangeness of being

Last night, I buried my mockingbird.

I waited, thinking the circle of life would envelope him. I've seen a fox in my yard (yes, though I live literally blocks outside city limits, I also live blocks from a rather large park - we see deer, too!).

But nothing touched my strange, little bird.

So I buried him. In a box from a French bakery. I have no idea why this is important, but it feels like it is.

Today I feel disconnected. It's as if I'm here, but the people around don't see me. At least not as I am.

It's the heat. It must be.


( 3 commentaires — Laissez un Commentaire )
Jul. 20th, 2011 07:07 pm (UTC)
It's a kindness, what you did for him. I've no doubt he's grateful.

Jul. 21st, 2011 12:23 am (UTC)
I think you did a right proper thing for that bird. You have such depth of emotion. Good for you for caring enough to step in.
Jul. 21st, 2011 02:47 am (UTC)
"I'm not here... this isn't happening."

Poor, sweet thing. How sad.

As far as the heat goes, it really fogs up my brain.
( 3 commentaires — Laissez un Commentaire )