The Delightfully Tragic Reminiscences of Cadence DeLaundry

November 7, 2011          

As much as it pains me to admit, it would seem I have lost my Gay. Wherefrom once he rustled in his corner cage, only silence now permeates. An occasional creak of the swinging enclosure may break it, but when I look swiftly toward the corner, foolishly hopeful, empty it remains. Save for the half-full water dispenser he eagerly sipped from, and the dusty remnants in the feeder he loved to sift through with his brilliant beak… I may have to stop writing for a while. It’s possible the wound to my heart is too fresh, that only when time heals it will I have the strength to journal the way I wish to.

No. I must go on. There is too much to say, much too much that will be forever lost from my mind should I wait. I, Cadence DeLaundry, daughter of Ernest and Geraldine DeLaundry, lifelong North Carolinian and former pet-owner and friend of the late Gay Lee DeLaundry, must follow in the deep and impermeable footsteps of Pepys, Wordsworth, Frank, and all the rest of my many diarist predecessors. I must detail the truth; put it on paper by way of my pen, directed by my assured and adorably-manicured hand.

It began almost two weeks ago, on a day that itself began much like most of mine have tended to. The sun rose above the Blue Ridge Mountains, painting the morning sky with the aura of its light. As it filled my bedroom with its warm glow, I myself rose from peaceful slumber, with a cheerful yawn and expansive stretch of my arms. A quick scan of my surroundings preceded my oft-repeated surmisal, “I’ve got it pretty darn good.”

A caw from Gay’s cage alerted me of his wakefulness before I’d even turned to see him. Delighted, I looked toward my dear, sweet love, my mouth agape in wonderment. There he was, in all his fine-feathered glory. I recalled pulling the fuchsia cover over his little home upon my nine o’ clock bedtime the night before, to allot him his resting privacy, but must have slipped it off at some point in the night, too subconsciously perturbed by the canvas wall dividing us.

Merrily humming an Al Jolson tune, I slid my feet into cinnamon-colored slippers waiting on robin egg carpet, and twirled myself into erection. My corral chiffon nightie twisted like a cloud around me then fell back into place. A giggle protruded my lips, and I bounded for the vanity, keeping my eyes fixed on my Gay all the while.

His chest was puffed proudly, his head cocked, his own eyes daring and teasing. The teeth of my flush comb unsnarled my hair, and those black peepers widened wildly.

Two approving caws from my Gay were as much as I could handle. In one smooth motion, I tore open the gate, snatched him from his mock-branch perch and spun him down onto my bed, feeling our intertwined bodies sink deep into the upholstery as I squeezed little Gay into my bosom. It felt like hours had passed when I let go, and he somersaulted across my coverlet. His diminutive head bobbled back and forth as he regained his balance and composure, wringing himself back into regality.

Small and purposefully discreet tears welled in my eyes as I gazed down at the stunning display of bird before me. From those majestic jet-black wings to those magnificent night-black talons, he’d really grown up to be quite the crow. For so many years he’d accompanied me on this journey called life, a constant in an inconstant world.

I recalled my beloved rats, Pretty and Witty, both taken too soon by the scourge of cancer. Gay, at first their replacement (I now shudder to think of him in such a way), turned out to be in a league of his own. What had I done to deserve such a handsome, gregarious and dependable bird?