R.I.P. Petey

Petey, the family budgie of fifteen years, died today.

I had been blubbering all week about his suffering. Today when I came home from work, no one was home, but mom had taped a picture of a bird cage with its door open to the wall of the staircase.

I kind of hate how she has to do that. Or maybe I hate how I understand what it meant. I always felt she spent more time being creative and productive than being a mom. Whether she did it intentionally or not, she created me and Joey, so being her own worst critic, she picks at us relentlessly.

And yet, I’ll take her visual communication over trying to talk with her any day. Talking to her makes everything ten times more painful. I was able to not feel sorry for Petey, or sorry for myself, because there was nothing sad about it. He wasn’t suffering anymore. He looked quite peaceful, and a large part of whatever has been making my chest hurt, removed itself when I went to look at him. I even stroked him a bit and didn’t cry, but I did wonder why things become so cold once they die. You’d think they would at least be room temperature. And it doesn’t happen to plants.

But then mom came home. She stood in my doorway and sighed. I didn’t turn around, so she sighed about five more times. I don’t know how she does it. I just wanted her to leave because I knew it was coming. Her way of dealing with things conflicts with my way of dealing with things, and there’s no way to tell her that without TELLING her that, and whenever I TALK with my mom…

Blah.

Equip: Maturity +50%

Who has read “The Little Prince” by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry?

I finished “Still Life With Crows” by Preston and Child today (loved it, Pendergast is easily one of my favorite fictional characters), and picked up “The Little Prince” since it was sitting right there on my desk.

I did a book report on “The Little Prince” back in grade school, where you get points for trying. I know the only reason I chose to read it was because it wasn’t even half an inch thick. This must have been towards the end of fifth grade when I stopped caring so much about over-achieving. I’d be up at the middle school building a year from then, and I had more important things to learn. Like how to fasten a bra.

So yeah, picked it back up today and read it in one sitting. Everything I absorbed this time around satisfied me in the same way discovering the key to the universe would satisfy mom’s nuclear physicist friend, Charlotte. Apparently you have to be at least 20 years old to appreciate that book.

Considering my life this year, two chapters really jumped out at me, chapters 20 and 21, and I think if you have five minutes (that’s really all it would take) it wouldn’t hurt you to read them, either.

Here is a link to the book in its entirety, complete with Antoine’s illustrations.