yes, now

by Seth Parker

You found the bird under the bedroom window and said it had to be buried.

“Now?” I asked.

“Yes, now.”

I fetched the garden trowel. We buried it near the strawberry tree. You held the bird like it was sleeping. A European bee-eater, you said. Even dead, it seemed so bright: reds, blues, yellow on its throat. You folded its wings and watched as I covered it with dirt.

Later, in the small room you use as a studio, you painted it. Not from a photograph, just what you remembered. You worked quietly, dipping the brush, lifting the wings. When you were done, the bird looked like it was about to fly off. You pinned it above your desk.

You take photographs: mostly weddings. You look for the hidden and impromptu. A bride alone in a stairwell, eyes closed, taking a breath. A boy on a chair, fixing a fallen decoration. Two old women laughing, leaning into each other. Toddlers sharing cake. High heels abandoned for a late-night dance.

You say a photo isn’t memory; it’s time stopped. A sliver, a blink. Later, you gaze at the small rectangular residue of that moment, and a memory breaks out of its cage, fluttering.

You showed me a photo of yourself, aged five. You were reaching for something just out of frame. “I remember now,” you said. “I was dancing with my shadow.”

Two days after we buried the bird, I stayed late at The Memory to finish up my section of the newspaper.  It was that Thursday, driving back on my motorcycle, that a worn tire on a Honda Odyssey burst, and careened into the other lane, hitting two other vehicles. Three people were killed. I was one of them.

I don’t remember the impact. There’s a silence and then I’m outside of it all, moving in and out of time until I find myself at my own funeral. The photo they used, a recent one you took, is of me smiling just after you told me you were pregnant.

After the service, you sit in the car. You haven’t turned the key. Your head’s down and your shoulders move like something inside is breaking out. Sobs come, one after the other, in ragged bursts. I am here and not here. I am and I am not. A hand that is not a hand reaches out

Your sobs stop as sharply as a cliff. You press your sleeve to your face. Then you look up.

You say my name.

Photo of Seth Parker

BIO: Seth David Parker is a South Africa currently teaching in Taiwan. He has no social media presence and likes it that way. His work has previously appeared in Blood+Honey.