Charlie

My father looked away from the mailbox and was quite surprised to see him running down the street. As well, I suppose that my father surprised him because he stopped when seeing him before turning and leaping over the fence bordering our garden. My father hurried to the house and through the garden room to […]

My father looked away from the mailbox and was quite surprised to see him running down the street. As well, I suppose that my father surprised him because he stopped when seeing him before turning and leaping over the fence bordering our garden.

My father hurried to the house and through the garden room to plunge into the garden in search of him: the wildflower meadow was in its infancy, so my father had an unobstructed view when seeing him strutting through its sprouts as though owning the land. My father smiled, and took his seat upon the garden bench beneath the patio roof, and he continued strutting while presenting minimal acknowledgement.

Well, he made the land surrounding my childhood home his home that spring: he roamed the meadow chasing the insects providing him pleasure until leaping to his evening perch within the dense hedge of Russian olive, and my parents were happy to have him, so they named him Charlie. In fact, they were happy to my father breaking a pane of glass within the window of our little barn before building a ramp that Charlie could climb to perch upon the rafters beneath its roof when the weather was foul. And as he worked, my mother stood at distance speaking to Charlie while marveling before his concentration when tilting his head in attempts of understanding her words.

Well, the seasons passed, and the winds of winter began blowing as the rains cast their crystal gleam over the landscape: Charlie stood upon the step of the garden door; his expression was earnest, and his body rigid, and he had raised one leg tucking its foot beneath his wilted plumage for warmth. Of course, he didn’t acknowledge the inappropriateness of his request, but my mother did as she instructed my father to drape the garden room with plastic before letting him in. Still, there were the nights, and the garden room was without heat, so each evening, after the sun had set, and Charlie had retired to his perch atop the cellar well’s handrail, my father lit his flashlight, and tiptoed out to lift, and carry him down and into the cellar for a warm night’s rest.

Charlie passed those winter days within the garden room, and my mother hurried past him when leaving the house to make her way to the garage and car where she could release her clenched nostrils for fresh air. Then, it was early spring, and my parents were readying themselves to deliver me to the train for my return to the city: I was darting from the house to the garage to place my bag within the car when I acknowledged him pacing while looking through the long window within the garden door. Naturally, I assumed that he wanted out, and this was nothing new as his freedom had been clipped never, so I opened the door, and he darted out, and up to stand at the edge of the patio roof calling. I didn’t know who he was calling to, but he was gone when my parents returned home.

Charlie was a Banty rooster; he was a delight to my parents, and a distraction from my brother’s death, and, as is our belief, he was sent by my brother to relieve upset.