Aviary by Jenny Severyn

Photo by Luke Brugger on Unsplash

Behind the glass, corn cob bedding pillows the dead finch. Hilly plops into the faux velvet wingback chair, notices the dusty purple dawn filtering through the gauzy drapes. She must be the one who found the little birdy first, like she’d found Edgar unresponsive in the backyard, his joggers and flannel button-up sopping from the streaming garden hose he still clutched. Hilly remembers thinking Edgar’s face was milky and mottled. She can’t imagine that curdled face now. But she can picture Grampa’s waxy, gaunt cheeks and the brown ribbing on the lumpy easy chair where he still reclined, muscles stiffened into place, and the odd tilt to her voice when she phoned her mother with the news.

Maryam enters the aviary, carting her supplies to feed the finches, clear their filth from the plastic vines, the ropes and perches, twine spherical roosts. Maryam had taught Hilly the little dead one is a zebra finch. Stripes and polka dots both, browns and greys. Maryam coos at the exotic little lifeless thing in soft public mourning. She advises Hilly to return to her room while Maryam cleans today. Hilly doesn’t. Maryam leaves to fetch an aide, returns alone, and says she’ll take you, Mrs. Moreland, just for today.

Stout Maryam hoists Hilly to her walker and caresses Hilly’s hunched shoulder while they plod down the beige hallway, a beaten flat and dingy streak down the carpet’s middle. Don’t be sad about the finch, Mrs. Moreland. He lived a good life. There, sit in the big chair, Mrs. Moreland. Are you okay? Do you need water? Okay. Have a good day, Mrs. Moreland. Hilly looks out her window. Past the tidily manicured boxwoods, sparrows peck at the asphalt parking lot. Hilly watches.

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Jenny Severyn lives in Ohio with her husband. She holds a BA in English from Loyola University Chicago and an MLIS from Simmons University. Her work has appeared in Litbreak, Eunoia Review, and Apricity Press.