Another picture in my apartment has become a memorial. It started with Lacey, when I was still at home. She passed away in her old age, and suddenly the pictures of her in my room drew my eye more often. It became a little more sad to have them there, with the memories associated, but it was still worth it. I kept them there to honor her memory. And then was Dita. This was the hardest of all. Unexpected, harsh, and the biggest shock to my system of my life at that time. There were so many pictures, and so many memories. When I went to college, I took the photos of Lacey and of Dita, along with all my other photos. They still lived in my heart, and those pictures were an extension of that. I would feel the sorrow whether the pictures were there or not; with the pictures, it was easier to remember the love, too. I remember when my roommate accidently broke the frame that had housed a picture of the three dogs on the steps in the old house; I cried, even though it was stupid. I told her it was fine. It really was. It was just a frame. I put the frame in a bag, and put the photo on my desk.
And then was Minerva. I thought my boyfriend at the time was so supportive, driving with my mom and I to bury her on my Grandpa's chest. He liked chickens. He would have liked her. I didn't find out until over a year later that when he drove home, he called a friend and laughed about it.
I prefer not to think about it. After all, it is old news.
And then was Carmen. Gone, no trace, no clues. And then was Victoria. I came home one weekend. Albert and Timora were on the other side of their cage. Her body was in the corner. Albert had defended her, and had dried blood; both his and the skunks. I was sad, but it could have been so much worse. Her picture was the background of my computer for months.
And then was one of Heff's girls. I didn't know her very well. She was the broody one; the one that hatched out little peep, and the duckling that died because it couldn't get to water.
And then Cali. Oh, Cali. Maybe, if Dita hadn't gone, she would have stayed. I think, ultimately, it was sadness. She wanted to go. It was very hard, but it wasn't about me this time. I wasn't her rock. I wasn't her person. I had to serve in two capacities this time; mourner, and supporter. I don't know which one is worse. Probably supporter. I'm sure I'll give you different answers, depending on the day. Or the moment. Or the memory. I repaired the picture frame and put the picture of the dogs back in, and put it on my desk.
The past few days, I have been wanting to come home. I haven't been in weeks. I was starting to dream about it. It was disrupting my sleep. Last night, I decided I needed to come. Damn my midterm thursday, damn my 10 am class. I was going to make the hour long drive and just visit for the morning. I came home. I saw my mom. I hugged chickens. I wasn't surprised when little peep didn't run up. In the morning and afternoon, she does her own thing. An independent woman, climbing trees and nailing beetles midair. She comes for sunflower seeds though. She recognizes the sound of the package and comes running, screaming at you the whole way. If you don't crack the seeds fast enough, she stands on your knee and pecks at the bag.
I fed all the other chickens some seeds. I was amazed by how big the chicks were. I started feeling a little worried that she hadn't come yet. I remembered my worry on the way home, that she wouldn't remember me. That my parent's hadn't been giving her seeds and she wouldn't be in the habit of it anymore. That she would look so different that I wouldn't recognize her. I walked around, yelling "peep, peep". The same noises we used when she was a chick, the size of one eyeglass lens, to get her to drink water from the cap of a pacifico bottle.
I got no response.
I walked over and gave seeds to Heff and Sonya. I was starting to have that feeling. The deep dread I feel. I am usually right. I was this time, too. In the corner of the yard, by a rhododendron, there were the feathers. From the color, I knew they were hers. From the amount, I knew it wasn't just from dusting. She was gone. And in that instant, the picture on the cupboard at home became a memorial. The picture Anne took, where my lips are squished against her head, and she is looking begrudgingly accepting of the kiss. In that instant, it went from a funny, lighthearted shot, to another memorial.
It makes me sad, sometimes, when I look around my apartment and think of how much more the dead are represented in my photos than the living. In a way I'm afraid to take pictures now. I can't help the thoughts. Like, what if this is the last picture? What if the photo is unflattering, or captures and angry moment, and then there are no more?
Why do I always have to find them? Why am I always drawn to the worst of sights? I've never been able to handle sadness very well. It stretches out and distorts in weird ways. I will probably be okay for a while now. But at some point, maybe days from now, maybe months, I will crack a sunflower shell and start crying. My grief doesn't behave. It all balls up and spills out at stupid moments. Oftentimes over unrelated things. Soon I'll start working on integration problems for my midterm today. Maybe I will cry if I can't remember the intergral of xlnx. Maybe I will cry if, while driving, a merge goes badly. Maybe I will get angry if I spill some of my milk. Emotions twist and slip and pour out little bit by little bit, all over the place.
My emotions will last. But little peep is gone.
