Two motionless hatchlings, featherless and translucent, punctuate the lawn. A fallen nest completes their ellipsis. “Help me bury them,” she pleads. Breathless. Eleven. Just inside that liminal space where the heart still breaks for baby birds. I drop everything. We scour the house for a proper coffin: right sized, sturdy, biodegradable. I scoop the creatures onto a garden trowel and place them side by side in the Twinings box she lined with paper towels. Urgent. Gentle. I dig a hole and she sets the box inside, fills the earth around. Discarded limestone paver, nest on top, marks this tiny tomb.
Catherine Humikowski a pediatric intensive care physician, cancer survivor, and cardiac arrest survivor who writes about death and other fun topics.