Tiny Bodies

by Joanna Dane

In environmental studies class, after we read a remember poem and write our own remember poems, Kyle takes offense and says this is science class, not philosophy or English. Plus, I hate people telling me what to do, he announces to the whole class. And bullies make me mad! he shouts.

I suggest he take a break and I follow him out. In the hall, I offer a walk, and he agrees and as we round the teachers’ parking lot, Kyle says, dead bird, and points at a house sparrow in the dirt, feathers graying, the eye, an infinite black cave; its tiny clutching claws.

Kyle tried to cover it with some leaves and a blade of grass.

Should we bury it? I ask.

He says yes.

All I have is the notecard with my remember poem.

So I use that to lift the tiny body and carry it to the little patch of prairie in the far corner of the football field.

We should bury it there, says Kyle, pointing to an indentation in the wet earth near the asters.

I dig with my fingers to make a sunken bed. I slide the bird in and Kyle helps cover it with earth and leaves and says, I hope when I die, there’s someone there to bury me.

That’s a lovely wish, I say. I hope the same for both of us.

For everyone? asks Kyle.

Yes, for everyone.

I rip up my remember poem and sprinkle it on the grave.

We get back to class before the bell rings.

Joanna K. Dane is a special education teacher for the Appleton Area School District.