A bird was dead. Its little body lay upon the pavement. Shot, I think; its breast a dark well of frozen blood. The ground is frozen too; even at noon, I slipped on ice but didn’t fall. I passed him on my way to the laundromat. Back and forth, I saw him every trip. A little rust red bird with black tipped wings. Common and lovely. We live amid a bounty of treasures. Its eyes were opened, and like the poor narrator of The Raven, I felt those eyes, guessing at the bird’s meaning.
“Memento mori,” I said aloud.
My conscience troubling me, I returned with a broom and dust pan. Poor funerary equipment, for sure. I carried it out of the walkway and laid it on the ice covered grass. A prayer I prayed, that it which had lived passing between heaven and earth should still be loved somewhere, should be remembered.
Strangely, I was paid for my services. There was a dollar on the ground for me, much more than my worth, perhaps; I was pleased supposing it a quarter.
So, I returned home, and thinking of death as I folded my laundry, bemoaning the fast spent hours of my dwindling day, this couplet occurred to me:
A thousand things to do, I cannot do them all.
A thousand woes to grieve, and oh I am so small.
Grief and guilt assail me, for I waste so much. God help me in my dwindling life! I too shall die. This world seems mad. I could also, by some careless or hateful bullet, meet a sudden end. Alone, shall I lie there upon the icy road like that bird? Well, I have passage money for Charon, I think. I shall keep that liberty dollar under my tongue.
Tale Told 