When the Last Bird Flies: a short story by Kody Boye
In which a girl grapples with her mother's death
“Lana,” Mama says. “Will you fetch the birds their food?”
Though I am loath to do it on a day like this—when the sky is overcast and threatening rain—I know that Mama will be disappointed if I do not do it. As such, I nod, turn my head to face her, and say, “Yes, Mama.”
Her smile is radiant despite her fragility, and brings with it that subtle twang of emotion that makes me thankful that she is still alive after all this time.
Rising from my place on the floor, I make my way out of the living room and begin my trek toward the back of the house.
At the entrance to the cellar, I pause before opening the door. Then, I descend.
Fetching the birds their food from the cellar is a task I have become accustomed to over the years. At the time of the EMP strike over five years ago, I was only twelve, and filled with fear over what might happen to us. These were truly dark times, and not just because the power was gone. Filled with struggle, with doubt, with fear and worry, we’d always wonder where our next meal would come from, especially when we were in the city. Choosing to move out here, to our cabin in the wilds of Texas, was quite possibly the best decision we ever made.
Nowadays, life has become routine. Most days, I wake up, brush my hair, clean my teeth, then rouse Mama from bed and help her into the chair near the window. Some days, we’ll even see the neighbors from just down the road. They’re always kind enough to trade us for supplies when they go into the city, since I have taken to growing fresh vegetables in the garden out back. Bird food in particular is one of Mama’s routine requests, and is one of the few things in life that makes my mother happy.
As I set foot within the cellar, I lift my eyes to face the small window pane that is frosted with spiderwebs, then scan the shelving units until I come upon the grain that the Smiths last brought from the city.
Enough for a few weeks, I think.
With that in mind, I step forward, crouch down, take the plastic bird feeding cup in hand, and dip it into the gutted sack of grain, careful not to take too much or too little.
Birds are greedy, Mama would say. They, too, are hungry—
And intelligent, she would often add. They always want seconds.
After securing the cellar door in place, I make my way back into the living room.
Mama is waiting there, in her old rocking chair, a shawl about her shoulders and a comforter over her waist, which she grips tight with hands that are far too old for her age. The arthritis has taken her body, twisted her fingers and made her weak. She’s always kept her ailments from me; and though I wish I knew what all was wrong, she refuses to tell me.
A woman always keeps her secrets, she once said.
My hand upon her shoulder is enough to startle her.
“Lana,” she says. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I brought the grain.”
“Good, good. Now—go feed the birds.”
I’m just about to turn and make my way out the front door when her hand catches my wrist.
“Mama?” I ask, and frown. “Is everything all right?”
“I just… wanted to tell you that I loved you.”
“Thank you,” I say, and lean down to kiss her cheek. “I love you, too.”
Outside, I whistle to call the birds, then go to work sprinkling the grain along the front porch, ensuring that it’s in view of my mother’s window. Most days, we get pigeons. Sometimes, blue jays, and even cardinals passing into the area will arrive to take their fill. I hope today is one of those days, if only for my mother’s sake.
As I stand here, before the window, and look into the distance, I long for a time in which I didn’t have to worry—a time in which I didn’t have to take care of a poor, ailing mother.
Always be thankful for the things you have, my mother once said.
“Yes,” I say to myself. “Always be thankful.” My life is not as hard as those lived by others.
The birds won’t come while I’m still outside. For that reason, I turn to step inside—
Only to find that Mama’s gaze is fixed.
“Mama?” I ask, stepping toward the window. “Mama?”
Normally, her gaze wanders about the porch, and she greets me with a smile upon my return. Today, though, she is just staring.
I can’t rush into the house fast enough.
“Mama?” I ask, setting my hand on her shoulder. “Is everything all right?”
She blinks to focus her gaze back on me. Her breathing is shallower than normal, and coming only in short bursts and gasps. “Lana,” she says.
“Yes?”
“The birds.” She takes hold of my arms.
“What about them?” I ask, struggling to maintain my composure as I settle my gaze upon her. “Please… talk to me.”
“Promise me you’ll feed them,” she says, her voice growing raspier, weaker. “Promise me!”
“I promise, Mama! I promise!”
Her wrist trembles, and her eyes roll into the back of her head.
“Mama?” I ask, taking hold of her upper arms. “What’s going on? Tell me! Tell me!”
She offers the briefest of smiles as her gaze settles on the window behind me. “They’ve come,” she says.
Then, shortly thereafter, her smile fades.
Her grip on my arms slackens. Her shoulders slump.
For a moment, I am unsure what exactly has happened. I stand here—rooted to the spot. Then, slowly, it dawns on me.
My mother isn’t moving. She isn’t thinking. She isn’t breathing.
I reach forward to take her pulse, and wait for it to come.
It never does.
As I draw my hand away—and as the shock begins to settle into my system—I find myself trembling anew.
I want so desperately to scream—to take hold of her shoulders and shake her, to tell her no, that she needs to live, especially for me—but I know I can’t.
No.
My mother is dead, and there is nothing I can do about it.
The birds, I think.
Slowly, I lean forward and close my mother’s eyes.
Then, I turn to face the window.
Outside, in a world that is no longer our own, the birds have come to eat the grain. There are all manners of them. Blackbirds. Starlings. A few robins. A pigeon. But it is the bird at the end of the porch that catches my eye.
A dove—pure and white and fletched with gray—looks up at me.
Through the tears streaming down my face, I find myself looking at the creature who my mother said would one day come.
When the last bird flies, she once said, it will be a dove.
“A dove,” I whisper.
I step toward the window. Place my hand on the windowpane. Breathe deeply the musty air.
Then, I watch it take flight.
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