”Mama, what happens when we die?”

“I don’t think so, Mama. I think the doctors are wrong.”

The breeze rustled the leaves in the trees and sent a chill down my spine. I hugged myself, wrapping my thin cardigan tighter around my body. It was unusually chilly for a June morning, and there was a thin haze over the graveyard. I made my way to the fresh mound automatically, without having to look around to orient myself. It had taken only days for me to memorize the number of steps from the entrance to the pink marble stone that had been erected last month, which was a good thing. Usually I took the path with blurred vision. The tears would start when I shut my car door, and were a steady stream by the time I passed the main gates. By the time I reached my daughter’s headstone, they were a torrent.

Whoever said time heals all wounds never lost a child. Each morning the sun would rise, and the blush of pink in the sky would remind me of her cheeks. I could still smell her when I passed her room. The breakfast nook where I drank coffee salted with my tears seemed huge and empty without her tiny body sitting there, snuggled against me.

”Mama, why did I get sick when other kids don’t?”

“That’s because you haven’t had dinner yet,” I said with false cheerfulness. “What do you want me to order tonight?”

Finally, I reached the pale pink stone that had been erected just a month ago. I reached over the soft mound in front of it to dust off the top of it, when a bird swooped low and landed where I had just about laid my hand. It sat, looking at me quizzically with pale grey eyes. Its soft plumage was snowy white against the marble. A pigeon, I thought angrily. Rats of the sky. I started to shoo it away before it could mess on its polished perch, when I noticed a slip of paper tied to its gray-pink leg.

My breath caught in my throat. Not a pigeon, I thought stupidly. A dove. Could it be? I held my breath, and reached for the bird.

”I want Chinese!”

I laughed, and went to find my phone and take-out menu.

Shaking, I untied the ribbon from the bird’s leg. The paper was in a tiny scroll, and I had a hard time finding the spot where it began to unfurl. I was terrified of tearing it.

”Mama, what does yours say?”

She patted my hand. “Mama, one day you’ll have to let me go. One day soon.”

I thought about that last conversation we had had as I continued to unroll the paper with trembling hands. The next day, she had fallen into a coma, and within a week, she was dead. Could this paper be the message she’d promised me? Was it a letter from my baby girl in Heaven, telling me she was alright?

I sat on the ground next to her headstone and began to read.

The long sleek body of the black limousine reflected the bright green trees and stark white crosses. The limousine moved slowly, it’s tires crunching on the gravel. There was a long line of other slowly moving vehicles following the limousine, which in turn, followed the hearse. They rounded a bend in the road, and came to a stop.

The hearse pulled ahead to the grave site, and the other vehicles sat waiting with their occupants inside. At last, without a signal, all the occupants of the vehicles began to get out, and walk slowly down the hill, towards the mound of flowers at the end of the row. After a few moments, the occupants of the limousine emerged.

A small family, held together in grief, but firm in their resolve to stand up proudly for their lost son and brother... they walked slowly down to the gathering of their friends and acquaintances.

The mother saw a mockingbird sitting on a cross and as she approached the bird turned it’s head and looked at her. It squawked sharply and rose into the air, headed for a close by tree. She reached out to the cross, where a small piece of paper lay. The mockingbird called again as she picked it up and unrolled it.

The paper said “Time is what keeps things from happening all at once.” It reminded her of the slips of paper that were in fortune cookies, and she remembered that last dinner before her son shipped out with his unit. He loved chinese food, and they spent a happy evening in their favorite restaurant.

She stuck the paper in her pocket, and turned towards her family. Their minds were weary, and dulled by the last few days of anguish. No one really understood what had just happened. She felt the tiny slip of paper in her pocket, and wondered how it had gotten there. They walked down, and sat in the chairs placed for them by the flag-draped casket.

The mother tried to listen to the words spoken by her pastor, whom she had known for many years, but his voice just turned into comforting syrup in her ears. Others spoke other sentiments, yet she only heard bits and pieces.

A young man knelt in front of her and held out a carefully folded flag. She took it from him, and admired his firm hands and handsome uniform as he seemed to whisper “... behalf of a grateful...” She smiled at him, and thought about time.

She looked past the crowd of people who wanted to touch and comfort her and saw it was Time that had sent her a 3 year old rolling in the mud and laughing at a frog. Time that had sent him catching that first big catfish in the river. Time that sent him to a high school prom with his carefully combed hair. Time that saw him graduate proudly from boot camp. Time that took his life in service to his country.

She saw it all happening at once. And she flinched when the rifles fired their volleys.

It’s a pretty day. Large, puffy clouds fill the deep blue sky with the promise of a late afternoon storm. The breeze carries the scent of jasmine that is climbing a nearby wall. The grass is green with the recent rains, and even the desert heat has been dampened by the season.

“Just this side of perfect.” That’s what John would have said, were he here.

But John is gone. The fresh mound under which his remains are buried will soon be tamped down and covered with grass like the rest of the plots. The dates on his gravestone, so damned close together, will lose their meaning with the passage of time, as will the sentiments and even the name. Hard to believe after spending two years of my life and all of my energy trying to save him, but true just the same.

I blow a kiss to the newly laid stone and turn to walk away.

The bird – I think it’s a raven - almost hits me as it flies by. I jump. It’s a sizeable bird and an ominous sign. Though I’m not the superstitious type by nature, the knowledge that even the largest number of mourners is significantly outnumbered by the dead has always given me the willies in these places. The raven swoops and lands gracelessly upon a standing grave marker about ten feet from where I am. It caws an ugly cry and stares at me. I feel the skin on my neck prickle, and notice there is a piece of wire wrapped painfully around its right leg. The bird stamps its injured foot on the stone and continues to glare in my direction. It seems to hate me. I know that such anthropomorphism is foolish, but the look in its eye is uncannily similar to the one I so painfully remember coming from John two weeks ago.

We were at the Red Dragon for his fortieth birthday. It was just the two of us, and though we’ve been friends for most of our lives, the mood was uneasy. John had just eaten more food than I’ve ever seen him put away in one sitting. If you knew John, you know that was a feat in and of itself. I remember wondering if a person’s stomach could actually burst.

Don’t ask me how I fooled myself all that time into believing that he would be fine. Love, matched with the desperate desire for everything to be okay creates a powerful denial. But when he excused himself for a third cigarette, I knew.

I couldn’t save him. He was going to die.

When he came back from outside, I was angry. I cracked open my fortune cookie and pushed aside the bits to read the message inside. John ate the other four cookies without bothering to read his fortune. No need, I thought with even more sadness than I feel today. He has no future.

It was the message on my slip of paper that started the argument. It said: You cannot help he who does not want to be helped. Given that he was so disinterested in his own fortune, I was surprised when he took mine from my shaking hands. His face turned bright red as he read the words. I won’t go into what followed other than to say that my friend of thirty-five years was angry with me on that last time we were to see one another.

Now, I look into the hollow eyes of this angry, wounded bird and wonder why God continues to place those who need, but do not desire, help into my path.

Still, I am compelled to try. Maybe it will peck my eyes out. It will most certainly fly away if I approach, but I can’t just walk away. My grief for John is too fresh. So I step forward.

The raven caws angrily and stretches its wings, but it does not fly away. It stamps its left foot as I reach for its right leg, and its cries become louder and more threatening. I’m frightened, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t care if I’m hurt. Maybe that will make the pain of loss easier to bear. As I unwrap the biting wire from its leg, the bird pecks mildly at my hand and ruffles its feathers, but still it remains.

When I am done I back away, the rusted and bent piece of wire twisted in my hand. The raven caws one last time, and I swear it doesn’t seem angry anymore. Our eyes meet and I feel a sense of peace. Then it jumps from its perch and flies away.

I put the wire into my pocket and walk to the car.

Mary’s kitchen was dark. The lights were always off. She liked it that way. The gloomy space soothed her mind and made the trying days easier to endure. Above her kitchen sink was a window. It opened into a carport permitting sparse light. Shrouded in shadows, over the kitchen table, hung a cheap reproduction of Leonardo DaVinci’s ‘Last Supper’. The painting’s somber mood was a perfect fit for the kitchen’s décor.

Oddly enough, Mary’s favorite color was a cheery canary yellow. The walls of her home, both inside and out, were painted with its brightest hues. Although the sun’s rays had bleached the worn exterior, the inside walls remained as vibrant as ever. Yet, within the depths of her gloomy existence, Mary never noticed.

Next to the kitchen window hung a birdcage, inside of which lived Pipsqueak, her pet yellow canary. Pipsqueak’s constant singing brightened up Mary’s entire home. On clear spring evenings, the sun’s rays would stream through the carport’s entrance and penetrate her kitchen window. When the light reached Pipsqueak, he would stop singing, and instead, soak in its warmth. During those sunsets, when the light was just right, it also managed to illuminate one of the many crucifixes that adorned her walls. The light would reflect off the nail in Christ’s feet, dancing the same way as it did when reflecting off Pipsqueak’s metal leg band. I used to think of that leg band as being like a shackle, chaining him to the barred cage, preventing him from ever being free.

I was a child, barely tall enough to peer over the edge of my grandmother’s counter, when Pipsqueak died. From that day forward, the last bit of brightness in Mary's kitchen was snuffed out. Her life wore on for decades, with each long day spent in a downward spiral of gloom.

This past spring, I buried my grandmother. She died on Good Friday, a poignant day to leave. Easter Sunday came and went. There was not much in the way of celebrating. Our holiday feast was replaced by leftover Chinese take-out from the night before. The funeral was held on Easter Monday. I was one of the pallbearers. The weight I carried upon my shoulders that afternoon felt heavier than it should have for such a frail worn soul.

As I walked from the hearse towards the rectangular gaping hole in the earth, I heard a wonderful sound. It was the melodious song of a Goldfinch. It continued to sing as I lowered my Grandmother out of the midday sun and into the hungry shadows below. She came to rest only a few feet from my Grandfather, whose remains filled a space in the plot beside her. The Goldfinch sang as the priest performed the burial ceremony, and it continued to sing as I took a yellow flower from one of the bouquets and gently dropped it down on the casket’s lid. The bright yellow petals seemed to dim as they slipped away from the sun’s rays. Yet, I knew that the yellow flower was no less bright. The shadows may have claimed it, but it was still the same yellow.

When the ceremony ended, and the mournful crowd left, I remained behind to listen to the Goldfinch one last time. I spotted it singing amongst the shadows of the tree branch that hung over my Grandfather’s grave. It was a striking male; the same color as Pipsqueak the canary. It dawned on me that a Goldfinch is often referred to as a wild canary. I also recalled learning that a Goldfinch was the Christian symbol for the passion and resurrection of Christ. How appropriate to hear its song on the Easter weekend. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the bird's melodious voice. The singing ended abruptly as it flew from its perch into the mid day sun. It came to rest upon my Grandfather’s tombstone, bathed in radiant light. The sun glinted off a tiny metal leg band, much like the one that had captivated me in my youth. Only this time it wasn’t a shackle. The bird looked in my direction, then rose in the air, and silently flew away.

Months have passed. I’m still trying to interpret the loosely related glimpses into my Grandmother’s life, and death. The fortune cookie I ate the night before she was buried helped to shed some light on my muddled thoughts. It read, “A lost loved one has been found.”

Perhaps the Goldfinch was a sign, sent to assure me that my Grandmother, rid of life’s weight, was finally happy. Perhaps the sun’s rays deliver more than light and warmth. Or perhaps I’m searching for deeper meanings that just aren’t there.

I staggered against the blustery wind. Given the three-quarters-empty bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold in my hand, it wasn’t surprising. This was my second bottle of the day.

It was doing the trick.

Three steps later my balance failed me and I landed in a heap, hitting my head against a solid stone object behind me, hard enough to draw blood.

I struggled to focus. What was left of my conscious mind said, 'Get a grip, Jack', but I shrugged it of with contempt. I vomited violently on the stone slab beside me. I was a mess.

A minute of violent coughing and spluttering later, I lifted my head and inhaled a gigantic gulp of fresh air.

Focussing somewhat, I realised where I was. In my drunken stupor I had wandered into my old town cemetery. A magnificent grey pigeon landing on a tombstone a few steps away caught my eye. The delecate lines and colours of the bird tugged at my memory. Déjà vu? Somewhere I’d seen this bird before. I clicked as I recognised the thin tin object strapped to the pigeon’s leg. It was a shiny timing pod for a racing pigeon, exactly like the one’s grandfather used to use in his racing days.

Hmm, Good days. Happier days.

Then, the full impact of the words from the fortune cookie I’d had with my last Chinese meal suddenly hit me:

‘Seek Death, Your Path To Life Is Not With The Living.’

I’d taken those words literally two months ago, and had decided to come here, to the town of my birth, and, ‘Leaving Las Vegas’ style… decided to drink myself to death. And, now, here I was, (the irony complete) seeking death, in a place of death. I coughed again violently, this time more blood than vomit as I gasped for air.

I glanced up, and was amazed to see the pigeon had not moved, just sat quietly absorbing the futility of man. Not knowing why, I crawled towards the bird and slowly lifted my hand to stroke it.

"Jackel" an old familiar voice rung out, "how many times have I told you not to touch the birds? They leave a nasty bite you know!". The voice ringing out was unmistakeable, the deep tone, the childhood nickname, it could only be… I turned my head, and sure enough, there he was, Grandpop-sickle, just the way I remembered him…

20 years ago…

the last time I saw him…

a year before he died!

Predictably, he strolled up, placing the left hand filled with birdseed out in front of the bird. As the bird’s head leaned for the bait, he swooped in his right hand from behind his back and plucked the bird from its macabre perch. He unhitched the timing pod and popped the lid.

He unrolled the small piece of paper, took a brief glance and grinned in admiration.

"12:03", exclaimed Grandpop, "released at 12:03, that’s a new record from County Claire, way to go Stan, you are still the champ!" It couldn’t be a coincidence, the sound of dad’s name and the exact time of his death rung in the air, ripping at my heart.

I swiftly confronted Grandpop. "PLEASE don’t bring it up again Grandpop, I know I’m to blame, he cut the rope, but it was still my fault."

“Why do you think I have come home to die”.

The memory rolled to life again. Dad, looking up towards me as he slashed at the climbing rope, followed by the sight of abject fear stretched across his face as he begun his plunge to the crevasse floor 1000 feet below.

"Jackel my boy" said Grandpop, "20 years ago, your father, instead of taking me in when your mother died, left me in my loneliness to shrivel up and die. I was happy to join to her, but he knew he could have done more to help me. For that he never forgave himself. He spent his whole life trying to make it up to me through you."

"He's made this sacrifice so that you could live. Give your life to Linda and little Gareth at home, where you couldn’t for him, and he couldn’t with me." he stopped, then, slowly he smiled. "Don’t throw the reasons for our lives away" he said, "those that follow may learn from them."

As I cruised home the following day, my thoughts filled with dad, the time I ‘shared’ with Grandpop in the cemetery, and the prophetic words of that cookie:

‘Seek Death, Your Path To Life Is Not With The Living.’

Drunk? Maybe I had been, but a tiny grin caressed my lips for the first time in months. I looked forward to Linda’s fabulous pigeon-pie.

I had walked all through the night. I walked across empty roads and farmland, often detouring through bone yards such as the one in which I ended my journey. The dead brought me comfort, or so I told myself. Their peace was like nothing I had ever experienced in my short, corrupted life. And so I continued in the endless night, stopping here and there to pay my respects.

I was in Kansas; lord knows why. There was nothing left of the church but a few piles of burnt brick and ash barely visible in a century's growth of wild grasses. The cemetery behind the church was small and surrounded by a dozen large cottonwoods. Crossing myself, I stepped into the cemetery and made my way through the tombstones. I did my best not to tread on any graves; many of the markers had fallen, though, and I am sure I disturbed more than one person's well-deserved rest that night.

It led me to the northeast corner of this meager collection of plots. Alone amongst its brethren it stood straight and clean as the day it was carved. In an instant my search was over. Strange – I didn't even know I was looking for anything. Yet there it was, forgotten and perfect. I knelt beside it and pressed my cheek against the inscription (JANE MORGAN 1977-1998 SHE SOUGHT. STILL SHE SEEKS.). Silvery moonlight poked through the skeletal trees and illuminated the milky stone upon which I wept. A murderous chill caressed my bones with icy fingers, as though the corpse six feet below my own wretched shell had reached up to embrace me as a companion for eternity. I would not have minded if it had.

When my tears had dried and I was hoarse from sobbing, I pushed myself off of the lovingly carved stone that had pulled at my heart for thousands of miles and sat before it on the frigid Kansas soil. It was beautiful, with the delicate knots of my ancestors twisting their way along the edges of the stone and framing four lines of plain, unremarkable text in the center. I traced the chisel marks over and over until my fingertips were raw.

The moon vanished abruptly behind a great vulture stretching out its legs to settle on this forgotten and perfect marble tombstone. The bird stared at me, and I at it. The only sound in that little graveyard was the scratching of talons on stone. It occurred to me that that was the only sound I had heard in a long while. I turned that thought over and upright in my mind for a minute or so, but without much effort, for it bothered me little. The slender bit of leather wound around the bird's left leg seemed to me a much more curious thing. But that is untrue. The leather did not fascinate me; it was the silver chain bound by the leather that caught my eye. A yearning not much less than greed or obsession overtook my sorrow. My vision began to narrow on the liquid moonlight dripping from the scaly pink skin of the great bird. The letters on the tombstone transformed and spelled out a memory (Your desires will lead you to your destiny – a prediction that came with my last meal), but I paid them no mind. I reached for the necklace; my breath quickened. The silver gleamed brighter than the sun, but I refused to close my eyes. Pain exploded in my skull as the light burned my retinas. My fingertips brushed the silver – cool to the touch despite the blazing light – and hollow joy spread throughout my soul as I closed my hand onto –

Nothing. Near darkness returned. Only the moon and a smattering of stars lit the little bone yard. I jumped up and whipped my head left and right, trying to catch a glimpse of the vulture with the necklace. Panic seized my heart and squeezed with all its might. Oh, god! There was a nightmarish explosion, then another as I tried to scream. I didn't mean to! Instead of screaming I coughed the wet, ragged cough of the dying. I stared at the tombstone, mesmerized by the pattern of fresh, red droplets. Blood soaked the front of my shirt as I desperately tried to breathe. I fell to my hands and knees and clawed at the moist earth. My fingers found flesh. I'm so sorry! The jeweler's unseeing eyes stared up at me from under a thin layer of dirt, and in the reflection in his horn-rimmed glasses I saw the service revolver that sent me to this endless night.

I had walked all through the night. I walked across empty roads and farmland, often detouring through bone yards…