Fresh Writing: The Shadow

First draft

My Shadow died Thursday morning at eight A.M. Pacific Standard Time. But that's not how to tell a proper story, is it?

Let's start again.

It's Thursday morning, another day of the same thing: I'm up at five, watch the sun lift in the sky, say my prayers, drink some tea, eat a bit of lavender chocolate (okay, more like half a bar) and then it's seven a.m. and Spencer comes into my room first--a big lug of a man-boy--who bends down to give me a big bear hug.

"Are you enlightened yet?" he asks.

"Afraid not," I confess.

Ten minutes later it's little Jo Jo on my lap for a cuddle and she breathes morning breath on my face as she tells me about a dream. "It was weird," she says, in her light bright voice, "it was Christmas and Daddy was coming to give me a present but then my tooth fell out."

"Do you have a loose tooth?" I ask.

"Sort of but not really," she says. She moves her finger on her front canine. Mr. Wiggly, we call it.

The sky is blue and the sun is bright. Wind blows and it's cold like March. June is just a few days away.

I readjust her so the bone of her butt doesn't rub so much on the bone of my shin. I try to be careful though because too much jostling around and she'll be gone in a flash and I'll miss a moment more of holding her tight. How much longer will I be able to hold this girl on my lap? That's what I think and then more thoughts rush in: before we leave for school, will I have time to take a shower and clean the chicken coop?

"Sweets," I say as I set Jo on her feet. "What do you want for breakfast? Bagel and cream cheese or cereal?"

"Cereal!" she declares. She tugs down her pajama top--pink with a poodle sewn on. The poodle is black fabric. It's a shadow of a poodle. Dog in profile.

"OK!" I say.

One more hug and she's off. I blow out the candles at my alter and go down to take my shower, pull on jeans, dry my hair and check the time.

Spencer and I get into a fight--what is it about? He's on the computer, I think, and that bugs me or maybe he didn't clean his dishes. I don't even know but it's not good. We're both pissed off and I think he yells or I yell and that's how it is with my teenager these days. We're both fast to fire and that's no good with a teenager. We're doing therapy to catch this tiger by the tail.

"Let's just table this until we meet with the therapist," I say.

"FINE!" he yells.

He storms out of the house and I follow him down the steps and call out how he better come back and hug me because if something happens to either one of us before we see each other again--well, that would suck.

Spencer stops on the sidewalk, pauses for a second and then slouches back toward me--PISSED. He hates when I play the "this might be last time I see you" card but I can't help it. Death is real. The Buddhists remind us how life is a party on death row.

Spencer hugs me but it's a bullshit hug and as he storms away to school, I watch him go and get all in my head about what a bad mother I am and how I'm blowing it with him in 15,000 different ways and then I check the clock. 15 minutes before Jo needs to leave for school.

Jo is on the floor in the living room and she makes a world for a small rock she calls Rockie. It's her way to avoid the conflict that fires between Spencer and me. Jo disappears into fantasy.

She has this thing where she collects boxes and makes houses for all kinds of things--rocks, shells, pine cones. Rockie has a three box house. "Remember to pack your snack, sweets," I say.

"I will, Mommy," she says.

"And comb your hair," I add.

"Ok," she says.

Out back, the chickens are in the coop--one Brahma named Sunny (Jo's girl) and my girl named Shadow. Sunny is all aggressive and pesky at the door of the coop--LET ME OUT--the way she is. That damn chicken scares me to death. But Shadow, a Jersey Giant, sits in a self made hole at the back of the coop.

I know before I know.

A quiet chicken in a self made hole is a sick chicken.

In January, it was our other Brahma, Diamond. Spencer's girl. She was in a hole. 24 hours later, she was dead.

I scoop my girl into my arms and feel around her behind. Is an egg bound up there? Is she hot? Is it bacterial?

"Hi sweets," I coo.

This is a girl I raised from a tiny little chick. She was just a palm of beak and fuzz not that long ago. Two years? Chickens are supposed to live to be 11 or 12. That's what the damn urban chicken book told us but now--her she is. Sick.

Shit!

Shadow is a big girl, ten pounds at least and she's all black feathers that shimmer green when you hold her in the sunlight. She has dark brown eyes. She is a sweet girl. One egg a day, every day for more than a year. Her dark eyes blink in a slow, tired expression of surrender.

Denial throws up a wall and I tell myself she's not going to die. I'll think of something but first, first, I have to clean the coop right away. I ease Shadow into the top shelf of the coop, scoot that mean-bad-ass Sunny into the run and rake the sand clear of poo, vegi droppings and greens. I make a pile and lift it all into a recycling bin.

That's what happens when I'm scared. I move fast and clean everything in sight. I'm scared a lot--even when things aren't scary. My house is spotless because that's the way it is when you've been conditioned on terror. Everything, even nothing, is scary inside my brain and it takes a lot of work to calm that shit down. Yoga. Meditation. Breathing. I tell myself, "it's okay. It's okay. It's okay." That's the reason I'm up at five, everyday. Prayer is peace. Prayer is quiet. Prayer is hope that I can change this brain.

Add more food to the feeder, change the water and then check Shadow again. She's limp and I think about antibiotics I have in the house. I'll break one up, yeah, that's what I'll do but then again, I don't know. I don't know what to do. I carry her out into the run and she moves a little in my hands. I put her down on the ground, thinking maybe she'll just pop up and it will be okay but she doesn't.

She rolls on her side and jerks a few times and that's it. My girl just dies there in front of me and I'm fucking clueless about what to do. I call over my shoulder to Jo and ask her please, please to bring me the phone and while I wait, I kneel on the ground and tell Shadow how sorry I am as if this damn chicken is inside of her head blaming me for being a lame chicken farmer (which I am).

In no time, Jo is behind me with the phone in her hand. Her blue eyes are wide. Her tangled hair tumbles over her shoulders.

"Mom?"

"It's Shadow," I say and try to suck it up but I can't. I start to cry.

Jo drops to her knees but she doesn't really have an emotional response. She's not a huge fans of the chickens. When her bunny died, she wailed but the chickens are big and stinky and lizard like. Jo's more of a gerbil girl.

I dial my husband but then mis-dial and then dial again and I wonder why in the world am I calling him? He's at work and he knows less about these birds than I do. What's he going to do? And what does it matter?

The wind blows over us and Shadow's feathers shimmer dark green. Sunny hovers around, pacing in this half circle pattern. She keeps her distance but makes this weird squawk sound.

I drop the phone on the ground, giving up on my man. Jo touches Shadow's soft dark neck feathers.

"She's still warm," Jo says.

I sob, uncontrollable now. Such a bad mother. I shouldn't be losing my shit in front of my little girl. I'm supposed to be the strong one but I'm just overcome with a sense of total helplessness and regret and skill-less-ness in the face of whatever has taken this chicken away.

Jo puts her slim arm around my shoulders. Doesn't even hesitate and I think about how solid she feels.

I'm so sorry, Mom," Jo says.

When did I learn I wasn't supposed to cry? When was I told emotion was only the dominion of children and that adults were supposed to always, under all circumstances, keep their shit together? When did it happen that feelings were not allowed? I don't even know. I just know that I am filled to the brim with this story about crying and that I shouldn't be upset but I am upset. I am very upset. My damn chicken has died in a flash and I am in charge of her and this life was in my hands and I blew it. I don't know, didn't know, what to do.

As Jo holds her arm around me and I cry, I think about other times that death has come to call on me. My mother when I was seven, my father when I was nine and my brother when I was just twenty years old. Every single death felt the same--like defeat. I didn't know what to and I blamed myself for what I didn't know and I cried with that terror of someone who is sure, somehow, it's her fault.

It's just a chicken.

I know.

I know.

Later in the day, I will be told, "chicken's just die. It happens. It's not your fault. You're going to have to get a tougher skin if you are going to be a chicken farmer."

And I guess it's true but right now--I don't have a tough skin. I'm raw with sorrow and confusion. I didn't know what to do and the girl is gone and now Jo is late to school--something she hates more than anything.

"Honey," I say as I swipe my nose with the sleeve of my shirt. "I need to get you to school. You're late."

"It's okay, Mom," she says. "It doesn't matter, I can be late one day."

I nod and agree. It's just third grade.

Sunny pecks at the phone, like she wants to make a call and I realize I have to call Spencer. He'll be home for lunch to check the chickens and when he sees Shadow gone, that won't go well.

I wipe my nose on the tail of my shirt. "I need to call Spencer at school," I say. "And we should do something...with her body...we can't just leave her out here."

Jo nods like yes, that all makes sense.

"I have a box," she offers.

"Okay," I say.

Jo runs into the house.

I flip through the phone and look up the school number.

Ten minutes later, Spencer is home again and we all stand over Shadow, who has been wrapped in silk and placed in small box. Jo has added a plastic chicken and a few a shiny rocks. I covered her with rose petals. Spencer put in some leaves from a fragrant bush.

"It's like you said," Spencer finally says, "you never know."

"I know," I say.

We all stand there, stupid with nothing more to say. Life and death. They are here and happening and in the end, what can we do?

Finally, it's Spencer who says we need to put Shadow over by the statue of the Buddha--let her body rest like the Tibetan's teach--since it's believed the consciousness of a being, all beings, resides in the body for up to three days.

"Maybe she'll be reborn in a better place."

We all say a few mantra: Om Mani Padme Hung, the universal prayer of compassion and then Spencer and I hug, a real one this time, and he says he's sorry he yelled.

"Me too," I say. "Let's just start again."