"Daddy, I think Nicky is gone." I held the tiny parakeet in my childish palms, my thumb gently stroking his belly. I had been doing that for the last ten minutes or so, as a few gentle tears ran down my eleven year old cheek. My father leaped out of bed, and for the next hour, which happened to be from two to three in the morning, we found a shoe box, placed tissue in it along with his favorite mirror, gently placed his little body into the forever nest, sealed it, and wrote an epitaph on the box. It was the same poem my father had written seven years before, when I got Nicky from Santa Cl...
More..Elizabeth Bridgette
Member since: January 2008
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