The Blue Jay

The Blue Jay was dead. Its mangled carcass coughed up on the front lawn, a red ribboned present from our orange tabby. Or maybe it was an omen. In any case, it didn’t matter because I was late. Very late. The dead bird would have to remain where it met its demise until after school when I could give it a proper burial next to the deceased bunnies and chipmunks that was our animal cemetery.

My day would sink into more gloom as the sky opens and rain splashes my windshield on my short drive to school. Puddles. Everywhere. Squeaky, slippery hallways. A skinny kid with shaggy hair and bad acne goes down and, of course, everyone laughs because, yeah, that’s funny. The laughter adds to my gloom. That was not remotely funny.

I help the kid pick up his scattered books. We avoid eye contact. He mumbles, “thank you.”

Someone snickers, “Stupid freshman.”

I trudge to my first class, slump into my seat and find myself thinking about the dead bird on my front lawn. Again. I find myself thinking about everything we’ve buried: family, sadness, guilt.

Will my little brother see the corpse and cry? I usually dispose of the bodies before he spots them. Not that he doesn’t know they are buried in our backyard. Not that he doesn’t help make stick crosses. It’s just that he imagines them whole, in peaceful repose, crossing into animal heaven. He doesn’t see them broken, entrails strewn across the yard. My stomach sours at the thought. I hope he doesn’t see. Hope he doesn’t feel the sinking sadness. I’ll tell him it is all part of life. The tabby is a natural predator. Don’t hold this death against our cat. It’s the natural order of things. Natural order. Then how to explain death that subverts that order? Illness that strikes children, like the neighbor’s grandson who suffered his entire life before succumbing to cancer.

My thoughts are interrupted by the principal’s voice on the PA saying there is a lockdown drill. Silently, we slip to the dark recesses of the room. Make ourselves small, pretend that we would survive an armed gunman rampaging through our halls. As the minutes tick by, I consider how we would really respond if there were an actual active shooter. Would we be huddled, obediently, in silence? Or would we be whimpering ? Or screaming? Would the shooter pierce our door with bullets, break the glass pane? Shoot us all? Or would he continue down the hall to discover our friends hiding in other classrooms. They said most victims of gunshot wounds die from blood loss. I imagine blood, ribbons of blood.

But this is a drill. A drill.

“This concludes our lockdown drill. Please remain in your rooms until your doors are unlocked.” Mr. Murphy’s voice crackles over the PA.

I try to shake the morbid thoughts from my head. But the thoughts linger all day. Dead BlueJays, tiny stick crosses peppered across our lawn, dead children, blood soaking the floor.

When I get home, the rain has finally stopped. At least, the wet earth will yield easily. I pull the car into the garage, retrieve the shovel and head to the front yard, to the Blue Jay, intending to give the bird a proper burial.

But the bird is gone.

Tamara Belko is a reader, writer and teacher. As a middle school English teacher and Power of the Pen Creative writing coach, Tamara has spent her career sharing her passion for reading, writing and poetry with her students. Tamara is the author of young adult verse novel Perchance to Dream.