Joob

You told me “chickens don’t fly” as we climbed the magnolia tree in grandma’s backyard

“But, they’re birds”, I say back, “aren’t birds supposed to fly”

“Maybe that’s why we eat them more than other birds, they can’t get away” you tell me

And this makes me sad. I only learned that the chicken we eat at Sunday supper, deep fried and crispy with a side of mashed potatoes are the same chickens we see when we visit the farm with Papa.

“So because they can’t escape, we just eat them?” I ask and you nod and start climbing higher on the limbs

Fly or be eaten. Maybe that’s why I run away when life gets hard. Why I have such a hard time being present during the tough stuff.

Some people make me want to stay and risk becoming a meal. She made me feel that way. Like I could land and tuck all my little feathers into a cozy corner of her couch and just rest and just be.

I think that’s what I miss most now that she’s gone. I fly from one short distance to the next, wondering if I’ll ever feel that safety again. That warmth.

I never deserved her. But, I still wish I’d had her longer.