My Son Crafted a Coffin
In Honor of Birds, Part 1
My older son’s canary died last summer, a week or so before his 16th birthday.
My boy was in the middle of a creative project, as he so often is. This current project involved painting pictures for each of his friends, which he planned to give them for his birthday.
He put a pause on that artistic endeavor to craft a tiny coffin for his canary.
This was my son’s second canary. The first one only lived a few months and never sang.
This second one, Danny, had been around for several years, through my boy’s late childhood and wheeling into his teenhood years.
Why a bird? My son asked for a canary for I think it was his ninth birthday.
Not any bird.
A canary.
In his literature class, which I taught to him and several of his classmates, we read the story of a disabled boy whose canary’s loud singing alerted the household to the danger of a fire, saving everyone in the apartment complex.
I vaguely remember the story. But something in my boy’s heart sang at the idea that a little thing could make a difference.
This second canary did sing, but only in its season.
As fall turned to winter, Danny always grew silent. And every time, the silence stretched so long I would begin to think he would never sing again.
But then spring would roll around with its extra helpings of sunshine, its abundant measures of buds and blossoms.
And without any notice, no flyer to announce the coming song, my son’s canary would begin practicing.
Chirp a few times to clear his throat.
String together a couple of notes.
And then, without hesitation, break into song.
It was as if he had woven the song into his heart through the long winter, just waiting for the right time to let loose, a tiny body, a voice of grandeur.
My son set the tiny coffin into the ground in the backyard, next to a miniature rosebush whose blossoms rarely ebb. She pays no attention to the seasons.
Some seasons seem crafted for silence, some for song.