059. Ralphie was a good bird

It was raining the day they held the funeral. Everyone said that’s what Ralphie would have wanted. He loved it when it rained.

They didn’t have a back yard in the tiny townhouse they rented week-to-week, so they gathered on a median strip to commit the shoebox to the earth. Rosie had asked to give the speech, and Amy’s mum had packed her a packet of lamingtons, to cheer them all up.  Margie was the only one who had brought an umbrella, so they shared, the tree of them huddled against the wind.

“Ralphie was a good bird,” Rosie started. “He was always happy, even though he was disabled and flew into walls sometimes and bit Dad on the ear.”

Rosie sniffled.

“He died from eating paper.”

Tiny hands covered the box with dirt.

“Now I hate paper,” she said, in a voice sad enough that even the-rain-Raphie-would-have-wanted and a packet of lamingtons couldn’t wash it away.