MY CARDINAL

Half broken bird, a cardinal, female, and with no thought I scoop her off the sidewalk. I take her home and line a basket with a tea towel and put her inside. Her beak is still working air and she’s warm but I fear her neck is broken. I call wildlife services and they say bring her there, so I get Svend to drive. I had just been thinking of my daughter who may have spent her rent on knick-knacks, and how, being a food bank customer, I can’t help her. A dying bird in my lap and I’m insulating her against every bump in the road using my gut as a buffer, and I can’t make sure my daughter isn’t evicted. So I take the bird inside and they take her into a room and come out and say she’s passed away. I go home and the first place my eyes light is where on my bed I’d laid her while preparing the nesting box. My son and I go for a walk and when we get back I start listing stuff for sale I’d rather keep: my bike, a nice sweater, sundry minerals collected to commemorate scary brushes, lucky breaks. My daughter doesn’t have a phone and my bird doesn’t have a grave. I can’t call her and ask when she gets off work so I can book her an appointment. I can’t go there after I launder the tea towel and put the basket back on the shelf and wish I’d held her in my hand all the way because of course she wasn’t going to make it. So soft, so light, so delicate, so warm, her beautiful russet tail feathers and crest. My daughter inking up her thin pale arms and going to work hungry because she doesn’t plan, so I’m giving her our lunch containers hoping they’ll help. I sent her boxes of food I got out of community pantries, a circuit of which will now be my daily routine. I should have taken a picture of my little bird. I miss her and I worry for my daughter.