head.
Josh looked for a fitting funeral box, but there was nothing in the house except an empty cereal box that Grandma took from a kitchen cupboard. He didn’t want to put Semolina’s remains in something as ordinary as a breakfast food box, butthe pictures on the box had a rightness to them, sunshine on a farm, rows of corn, milk pouring onto a bowl of golden cornflakes. It made him think of all the times Semolina had sat by his bowl, dipping her beak into his breakfast.
As he took the box, Grandma said, “I hope you’re not fretting over what I said about the fox.”
He looked at her. “You mean about giving her to him?”
“That and some.”
He shrugged.
“You are,” she said. “I recognize a fret when I see one. I didn’t mean a scrap by it, you know. I worry about things. Your mother will tell you. I give tongue.”
He looked down at the cereal box, fair busting with happy pictures.
“Spit it out,” she said.
“You said to Mom—” He wriggled his feet.
“What did I say?”
“You said something about thoughts making things happen. Did you—” He stopped.
“Did I wish the fox into eating your chicken?” She sat with a thump that skidded the chair. “God save us, boy!Nothing of the kind! I just say things. I get tired. You know how little kids get when they’re tired? Well, it happens when you’re old too. I worry. I worry about mess. I worry about you and the baby. I worry about my daughter’s lack of ambition. I worry about the grass not growing on that godforsaken lawn and I worry about blocked drains. You got it in you. You’re a worrier too, and one day you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
He knew already, and he vowed sure as eggs, he’d never let his worries make him say mean things to people, no matter how old he got.
“It’s okay, Grandma,” he said. Then he added, “I’m sorry about your father running over your cat.”
Annalee and Harrison came over for the funeral. Annalee gave him a card from Bob, a real sympathy card with silver flowers, a poem on the outside and a message on the inside in Bob’s writing.
“It’s nice considering he never met Semolina,” she said. “I did tell him about her, how smart she was and all that.”
Josh wondered what else she’d told him. Gee, Bob, it’s so funny. Josh thinks Semolina actually talks to him.
Not that it mattered now.
Tucker dug a hole for Semolina in the flower garden outside the kitchen window. He said the ground wasn’t as hard as the rest of the yard, and besides, its meant that durn old bird was close to her favorite feeding place. He’d taken some care with the hole. It was next to a flowering geranium bush, neatly square with dirt in a little pyramid beside it.
Josh took the plastic bag out of the cereal box so Annalee and Harrison could have a last look. The blood and dirt had mixed up with the feathers, but the silver ring was plain as day, a bit twisted but still shining. Josh wondered if Annalee wanted it back. She didn’t. He carefully put the plastic bag back in the cereal box, and fitted it into the hole.
“Wait,” said Annalee. “We need to say something.”
“Like what?” said Harrison.
“Maybe a memory or something. I remember how Semolina used to crouch on my feet when I was sorting eggs. She was warm. Her feathers felt like old curtains. I rememberwhen she saw that toe ring, she pecked it. Jeepers, it hurt. She was so intent on having that ring.”
Josh was silent. It was hard to think about Semolina as a memory.
“I know a poem,” said Harrison. He stood straight and saluted. “Beg your pardon, Joshua Hardon, there’s a chicken in your garden.” He looked at Josh. “Sorry.
Miller
doesn’t rhyme with
garden.
”
For a moment they stood looking at the bright top of the cereal box. Josh didn’t speak, so Annalee said, “Okay. At funerals they always have a prayer. Who wants to say it?”
“You,” said Josh. “Please?”
Annalee breathed deeply like someone
Josh looked for a fitting funeral box, but there was nothing in the house except an empty cereal box that Grandma took from a kitchen cupboard. He didn’t want to put Semolina’s remains in something as ordinary as a breakfast food box, butthe pictures on the box had a rightness to them, sunshine on a farm, rows of corn, milk pouring onto a bowl of golden cornflakes. It made him think of all the times Semolina had sat by his bowl, dipping her beak into his breakfast.
As he took the box, Grandma said, “I hope you’re not fretting over what I said about the fox.”
He looked at her. “You mean about giving her to him?”
“That and some.”
He shrugged.
“You are,” she said. “I recognize a fret when I see one. I didn’t mean a scrap by it, you know. I worry about things. Your mother will tell you. I give tongue.”
He looked down at the cereal box, fair busting with happy pictures.
“Spit it out,” she said.
“You said to Mom—” He wriggled his feet.
“What did I say?”
“You said something about thoughts making things happen. Did you—” He stopped.
“Did I wish the fox into eating your chicken?” She sat with a thump that skidded the chair. “God save us, boy!Nothing of the kind! I just say things. I get tired. You know how little kids get when they’re tired? Well, it happens when you’re old too. I worry. I worry about mess. I worry about you and the baby. I worry about my daughter’s lack of ambition. I worry about the grass not growing on that godforsaken lawn and I worry about blocked drains. You got it in you. You’re a worrier too, and one day you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
He knew already, and he vowed sure as eggs, he’d never let his worries make him say mean things to people, no matter how old he got.
“It’s okay, Grandma,” he said. Then he added, “I’m sorry about your father running over your cat.”
Annalee and Harrison came over for the funeral. Annalee gave him a card from Bob, a real sympathy card with silver flowers, a poem on the outside and a message on the inside in Bob’s writing.
“It’s nice considering he never met Semolina,” she said. “I did tell him about her, how smart she was and all that.”
Josh wondered what else she’d told him. Gee, Bob, it’s so funny. Josh thinks Semolina actually talks to him.
Not that it mattered now.
Tucker dug a hole for Semolina in the flower garden outside the kitchen window. He said the ground wasn’t as hard as the rest of the yard, and besides, its meant that durn old bird was close to her favorite feeding place. He’d taken some care with the hole. It was next to a flowering geranium bush, neatly square with dirt in a little pyramid beside it.
Josh took the plastic bag out of the cereal box so Annalee and Harrison could have a last look. The blood and dirt had mixed up with the feathers, but the silver ring was plain as day, a bit twisted but still shining. Josh wondered if Annalee wanted it back. She didn’t. He carefully put the plastic bag back in the cereal box, and fitted it into the hole.
“Wait,” said Annalee. “We need to say something.”
“Like what?” said Harrison.
“Maybe a memory or something. I remember how Semolina used to crouch on my feet when I was sorting eggs. She was warm. Her feathers felt like old curtains. I rememberwhen she saw that toe ring, she pecked it. Jeepers, it hurt. She was so intent on having that ring.”
Josh was silent. It was hard to think about Semolina as a memory.
“I know a poem,” said Harrison. He stood straight and saluted. “Beg your pardon, Joshua Hardon, there’s a chicken in your garden.” He looked at Josh. “Sorry.
Miller
doesn’t rhyme with
garden.
”
For a moment they stood looking at the bright top of the cereal box. Josh didn’t speak, so Annalee said, “Okay. At funerals they always have a prayer. Who wants to say it?”
“You,” said Josh. “Please?”
Annalee breathed deeply like someone
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