I’ve heard homesteaders talk
about raising their children
learning the life cycle,
knowing where their food comes from,
giving thanks for the animal’s sacrifice.
But as I watch my three year-old
stroke the feathers of a dead pullet,
a seriousness in his eyes,
I’m unsure.
After a year of cupping
warm brown eggs in my palm,
we add two new chickens,
increasing the flock to six.
My boys each picked a pullet
Q. a Buff Orpington—Golden Chicky
O. a Rhode Island Red—Little Red Chicken
and for three days
they carried them around the barn,
protected them from the grown hens,
and had a pet of their own.
On the fourth day,
I retrieve them from their crate in the coop,
but Little Red is lying on her side,
body stiff, a veil over her eyes.
I search for blood or a wound,
and instantly think of O.
how sad he will be,
and I cry for the small bird in my hands.
That afternoon he looks for her,
and fumbling the words,
I decide to show him the body instead.
I promise to get him another chicken,
but he holds her to his chest
petting her with such care.
We bury her,
explain that her body
will go back to the earth,
feed the plants.
He nods and asks,
A tree will grow here?
We leave the backyard
hand-in-hand.
I think of my senior horse,
my nine-year-old Dachshund,
my aging parents.
