Mockingbird

When I was little, I used to hate playing outside, but my daddy could always convince me to go out and play with him whenever he wasn‘t too tired. Sometimes, he’d try to teach me to ride my bike, but I kept fallin’ off and I didn’t like that, so instead we started doing other stuff that I was better at, like diggin’ in our garden. Our flowers were going to come in really pretty, he told me, and I couldn’t wait for ‘em. 

But the day I remember best was when we were playing with that new ball that Momma got me. It had really pretty stripes on it and was super bouncy, like the kind in the machine at Pizza Hut, but the size of my fist instead of some puny little quarter toy like that boy across the street had. Daddy and I were bouncing it super high on our porch, and every time it’d go in the grass, I’d go off chasing it, since I didn’t want him to get too tired. 

“Watch this, Ellie,” Daddy said, “See that bird over there?” He pointed at a gray and white bird sitting on the clothesline. Now, I was in second grade, thank you very much, so I knew that bird, on account of how it’s our state bird, whatever that means, was called a mockingbird.

“Dad, don’t! You’re gonna hafta get the ball, ‘cause I’m not goin’ all the way out there for it,” I squealed. If he threw it at the bird, my new toy was gonna bounce all the way across the yard!

“Shh, it’ll be funny. It’s going to fly away so fast. I bet you’ve never seen a bird go as fast as this one’s going to go, El,” Daddy said, rolling the ball in between his fingers. I got distracted with lookin’ at his hands for a minute, since they were my favorite part of him, besides his eyes that were the same color as mine. But his hands were soft on the tops and scratchy on the other side and his fingernails were big and smoother than anyone else I knew. 

“Ready?” He asked, remindin’ me of my job - talking him out of scarin’ that poor bird.

“Dad, don’t,” I said, my hands on my hips, “Or. Else.” I repeated the words Mom always said to me when I was gonna get in trouble. He didn’t seem to get that that meant trouble ‘cause he started to aim for the bird. Before I could say another word, he had thrown the ball. But I guess his aim was off, cause there was a gross noise and then the bird hit the grass.

“Daddy!” I screamed, covering my face with my hands.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. Daddy wasn’t supposed to curse in front of me, but I didn’t say nothing.

“You weren’t supposed to hit it! You were supposed to scare him!” I yelled, rushin’ over to the bird. 

“I know! It was an accident!” My daddy seemed just as upset as I was, so I stopped feelin’ so mad at him. 

“Well, you know what we have to do,” I told him, putting my serious face back on, “We hafta bury him.”

“We do?” Daddy seemed surprised, but I didn’t know why.

“Of course! We have to give him a funeral,” I said. I could hear my voice getting thicker like it does when I‘m bein‘ yelled at, and Daddy must’ve too, cause he scooped me up into a hug.

“You alright, Ellie?” He whispered.

“Yeah, it’s the bird that’s dead, not me. Now lemme go. I gotta get a coffin for him,” I squirmed out of his grasp. I didn’t want him to know I was about to cry.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered as I was runnin‘ inside. I dunno if I was even supposed to hear it. It wasn’t too long before I sucked my tears back in and came back with a box that used to have crackers in it. I felt bad that the bird’s coffin was gonna be from the trash, but it was clean - I checked. Daddy had already wrapped the bird in his blue handkerchief and gotten the shovel we use in our flowerbed. 

“Where do you want to bury him?” Daddy asked as he put the bird in the coffin, real careful. I poked my tongue out like they do on T.V. when they’re thinking hard; I didn’t wanna pick a bad spot, so I had to think extra hard. I pointed to a spot in the shade and Daddy started digging.

“We should say somethin’ nice,” I told him. I hadn’t been to a funeral before, but I knew that usually people said stuff before they buried someone. And even though this was just a bird, I figured he should probably have something said about him too. Daddy grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. I used my pointer finger to trace his thumbnail.

“Well, this bird was probably a very good bird. And he died an early death, which is sad, like early deaths always are. Let’s just hope he lived a good life, because that always makes early deaths less sad, isn’t that right, El? Let’s hope he loved his children and that they love him and always will. And, uh… Mr. Bird, I am very sorry for hitting you. It was an accident, I promise. Even though that doesn’t make it any less of a tragedy, death is just a part of life. Rest in peace.” My daddy didn’t talk much, but when he did, he made me proud he was my daddy. I know it wasn’t any kind of poetry or nothin, but his funeral speech for that bird was better than that Shakespeare guy everyone talked about. I just knew it.

* * *

After that day, we went back outside and played, though it happened less and less as the years went on. Sometimes, I’d think of the bird in the cracker box underground, but usually, I had more important things to worry about. Despite it being my first encounter with death, eight years passed without that bird really coming into my mind again. And when it did, it came back strong.

“Why weren’t you hungry for dinner?” Dad’s voice sounded muffled through my closed door, but I knew pretending to not hear him wouldn’t work.

“You can come in, Dad,” I sighed. He seemed to think that since I was in high school now, I needed more privacy. Most girls would have appreciated that, especially my friends, who seemed to think that hating your parents was “cool” - something I didn’t really understand. In fact, I missed having him around as often, though I guess it was hard for him to be involved in my life when it was hard for him to get out of bed some days. Even when I’d go in to spend time with him, he would usually be napping, having not slept the night before because of the pain from his arthritis.

“What’s wrong?” He sat down at my desk, twisting the chair to face where I sat on my bed.

“We’re reading this new book in class…” I said, not really wanting to tell him until I had finished thinking about it all. That‘s why I had opted out of dinner.

“And? What’s the problem there? That’s your specialty.” My face twitched a little at that. I couldn’t help but smile when he hinted at my intelligence.

“It’s called, To Kill A Mockingbird. Have you heard of it?” His forehead drew together as he considered the title.

“Something about race, right? What’s that got to do with you being upset?”

“Well, the book talks about how it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird, since they don’t do anything but sing and bring people happiness,” I said, aiming for nonchalant, but I knew chewing on my lip wasn’t helping. I felt silly worrying about a little bird, but it had been bothering me all day at school.

“That’s a pretty good lesson to teach,” he said, “I’m still not getting it, El. What’s bothering you?”

“Don’t you remember, Dad? We killed a mockingbird once,” I mumbled, even though he hated when I did. I couldn’t help it; I didn’t want him to think I was accusing him.

“I didn’t mean to kill that bird, Ellie. It was an accident, and you made sure we gave it a proper burial.” He leaned forward in his chair.

“We still killed it though,” I said, barely loud enough for either of us to hear.

“Listen, death… just happens. It’s unavoidable. Sometimes it comes earlier than it’s supposed to. Sure, it might have not died that day if I hadn’t hit it, but it was going to die at some point. I’m sure it lived a decent life. You can’t let yourself focus on death. It’s not healthy for my little girl,” Dad said, reaching out to grab my hand. My soft, under-worked hand found his wide palm, the pads of my skinny fingers seeking out his marble-smooth fingernails like they always did when we held hands. 

“But what about--” I started, but I didn’t know where I was gonna finish. Luckily he cut me off.

“There ain’t not bird, or person, worth focusing on more than your own life, Ellie. Don’t ever think otherwise,” he gripped my hand tight. Not tight enough to hurt me, but I know it hurt him a little because of the arthritis.

“Nobody?” I said, looking up from our conjoined hands and into the eyes that were the exact same shade as my own. I knew he could sense the meaning of my question.

“Nobody. Now, c’mon. Let’s get some dinner. Momma made baked potatoes.” He stood up, still holding my hand, and guided me off the bed. I fell into his chest, wrapping my other arm around his back.

“Thanks, Daddy,” I whispered.

“That’s my girl,” he said, kissing my head, “You worry too much. That’s one of the few things you didn’t get from me.”

* * *

I didn’t have very long to reflect on my father’s insightful words about death, but it wasn’t too long before I needed them again. Four months after I had listened to him talk from a chair next to my bed, I was sitting in a chair next to his bed. Well, it wasn’t his bed, but the hospital had placed him there after the fall. It was going to be his last bed, from the way the doctors talked. We had known he was getting weaker, but Momma and I thought the days of limited mobility from his arthritis were far off in the distance. When he fell down the stairs, neither of us had been home. Momma had come home to find him sprawled at the foot of our staircase, unconscious. The doctors said he had severe bleeding in his brain, and Daddy didn’t want to have the surgery necessary to fix it. That was the first thing he had said after he had woken up, his voice scratchy and weak. I tried to convince him to have the surgery, but Momma knew he wouldn’t change his mind, so I meekly gave up in my attempt. Daddy was nothing if he wasn’t stubborn, and he knew the surgery wouldn’t be a permanent fix for his pain.

“Ellie,” he croaked out, “You remember what I said?”

“What, Daddy?” I asked, my voice thick, like it gets when I’m being yelled at.

“Don’t focus on death. Nobody’s worth it,” He tried to smile, but one side of his face didn’t get the message. I grabbed his hand, seeking out those fingernails of his to run my fingertips over. It felt like he’d been digging in the cooler for a can of soda, the way his hand was so cold and clammy. Regardless, his hand was the same hand I’d always sought comfort in, his fingernails the same ones I’d played with since I was little.

“I love you, Daddy,” I whispered, letting my tears fall freely in front of him for once, “Are you going to be okay?”

“It’s the bird that’s dead, not me, remember? We’ll both be fine. You’re gonna be fine. I love you too.” I smiled, recalling the first time I’d ever really had to consider death. Somehow, that day back in our yard made today a little easier. I knew heeding his advice wasn’t going to be easy, but the fact that it was what he wanted would definitely help me cope.

“I’ll say something nice,” I promised, remembering the words he had said to a cracker box eight years ago, “and I won’t focus on nothing more than my own life. Swear.”

“That’s my girl,” Daddy whispered. I squeezed his hand one last time before kissing his forehead and going into the hallway so Momma could talk to him. I sat under the fluorescent lights in a bleach-scented chair and tried to rearrange my thoughts into ones that would make my daddy proud.

* * *

His funeral was a few days later. I kept my promise and said something nice. Somehow, the words never seemed as powerful as the parting words he gave that bird, but I tried my hardest. Rather than a suit, he wore a blue checkered shirt that reminded me of a handkerchief. They buried him in a coffin, not a cracker box. Before they closed his coffin at the funeral, I pressed a tiny stuffed mockingbird into his palm, running my hands over his fingernails for the last time.

© Shea Moore

Biography: Shea Moore is an English student at Southeast Missouri State University from Milan, Tennessee. She is not exclusively an only, oldest, middle, or youngest child. She is hopelessly addicted to Broadway shows, caffeine, and procrastination.