The scarlet ibis
After what seemed like forever, I began to saunter back towards our only shelter, my heart stung every time as I paced each step. I was still holding doodle, promising to him that I would never leave him again. Telling him that I’ll pull him around in the go-cart until we became old men, white haired, long beard, just like I’d said before. I strolled as slowly as I could hoping I would never reach my destination, but of course I did.
Mama and daddy were waiting for us at the front door, just as they were about to yell at us, they saw pink blood dripping down my shirt from the rain. “Oh my goodness! What happened to doodle?” mama yelled. “ Doodle fell down, while in a rush to get home. Right Doodle?” I answered. She took a step forward, as she was shaking doodle, she began to weep. I’ve never seen daddy cry before, but whether they’re tears or rain drops, I couldn’t tell for sure. “ What are you crying for mama, doodle’s just tired, he went to sleep.” before I finished talking mama had already ran up stairs into her bedroom, her hand covering her mouth, tears coming down her face. Daddy followed her in. I sprinted up the stairs into mama’s room asking her what the matter was. “Doodle’s died!” her load voice ringing in my ears. “What are you talking about, mama? Doodle’s asleep. There are so many things we hadn’t done yet. So many promises I hadn’t kept. He can’t be died.” I told mama. Mama and daddy both looked up at the same time. Staring at me, daddy asked if I was okay. I said that I was fine, why wouldn’t I be okay. So they told me to let Doodle rest for the night. I did what they asked except I slept next to him through out the night, keeping my promise.
The next day, when I woke up Doodle was gone. “Mama, where’s Doodle? I have to keep my promise.” I shouted. No one answered, so I searched through the house. Finding nothing, I went out the kitchen door, hoping someone would explain to me what is happening. I found our friends and family all standing in the backyard next to the where the bleeding tree stood, lowing the mahogany coffin. “Mama, daddy! What are you doing? Is Doodle in there? I told you he’s not died. Why won’t you believe me.” I shouted out tons of questions, and everyone turned around and looked at me.
Daddy forced me in the house, with Doodle’s doctor following him. “I know exactly what’s happening to him.” said the doctor. Are they talking about me? “He can’t take the pain anymore so he’s mind is trying to find a solution to the pain. And the answer is imagining things he wanted to happen.” the doctor explained. “Is there any cure?” daddy asked. “Yes, over time his mind will learn to understand that doodle is died. So time is the cure.” the doctor answered.
And it was. Twenty years later, I had become the daddy and had my own family. My own kids sometimes reminded me of Doodle. One afternoon, I had free time and decided to start my story. And I began like this, “It was in the clove of seasons, summer was dead but autumn had not yet been born, that the ibis lit in the bleeding tree. The flower garden was strained with rotting brown magnolia petals and ironweeds grew rank amid the purple phlox. The five o'clocks by the chimney still marked time, but the oriole nest in the elm was untenanted and rocked back and forth like an empty cradle. The last graveyard flowers were blooming, and their smell drifted across the cotton field and through every room of our house, speaking softy the names of our dead…”
After what seemed like forever, I began to saunter back towards our only shelter, my heart stung every time as I paced each step. I was still holding doodle, promising to him that I would never leave him again. Telling him that I’ll pull him around in the go-cart until we became old men, white haired, long beard, just like I’d said before. I strolled as slowly as I could hoping I would never reach my destination, but of course I did.
Mama and daddy were waiting for us at the front door, just as they were about to yell at us, they saw pink blood dripping down my shirt from the rain. “Oh my goodness! What happened to doodle?” mama yelled. “ Doodle fell down, while in a rush to get home. Right Doodle?” I answered. She took a step forward, as she was shaking doodle, she began to weep. I’ve never seen daddy cry before, but whether they’re tears or rain drops, I couldn’t tell for sure. “ What are you crying for mama, doodle’s just tired, he went to sleep.” before I finished talking mama had already ran up stairs into her bedroom, her hand covering her mouth, tears coming down her face. Daddy followed her in. I sprinted up the stairs into mama’s room asking her what the matter was. “Doodle’s died!” her load voice ringing in my ears. “What are you talking about, mama? Doodle’s asleep. There are so many things we hadn’t done yet. So many promises I hadn’t kept. He can’t be died.” I told mama. Mama and daddy both looked up at the same time. Staring at me, daddy asked if I was okay. I said that I was fine, why wouldn’t I be okay. So they told me to let Doodle rest for the night. I did what they asked except I slept next to him through out the night, keeping my promise.
The next day, when I woke up Doodle was gone. “Mama, where’s Doodle? I have to keep my promise.” I shouted. No one answered, so I searched through the house. Finding nothing, I went out the kitchen door, hoping someone would explain to me what is happening. I found our friends and family all standing in the backyard next to the where the bleeding tree stood, lowing the mahogany coffin. “Mama, daddy! What are you doing? Is Doodle in there? I told you he’s not died. Why won’t you believe me.” I shouted out tons of questions, and everyone turned around and looked at me.
Daddy forced me in the house, with Doodle’s doctor following him. “I know exactly what’s happening to him.” said the doctor. Are they talking about me? “He can’t take the pain anymore so he’s mind is trying to find a solution to the pain. And the answer is imagining things he wanted to happen.” the doctor explained. “Is there any cure?” daddy asked. “Yes, over time his mind will learn to understand that doodle is died. So time is the cure.” the doctor answered.
And it was. Twenty years later, I had become the daddy and had my own family. My own kids sometimes reminded me of Doodle. One afternoon, I had free time and decided to start my story. And I began like this, “It was in the clove of seasons, summer was dead but autumn had not yet been born, that the ibis lit in the bleeding tree. The flower garden was strained with rotting brown magnolia petals and ironweeds grew rank amid the purple phlox. The five o'clocks by the chimney still marked time, but the oriole nest in the elm was untenanted and rocked back and forth like an empty cradle. The last graveyard flowers were blooming, and their smell drifted across the cotton field and through every room of our house, speaking softy the names of our dead…”