Before my adventures my mom would braid my hair so tight it would bring tears to my eyes.  After plaiting them she would adorn them both with a butterfly rubber band.  Then she would send me out into the world.  She would hold open the front screen door and I would make my way to my friends.

     In the front yard of our suburban yard, small box house, cherry trees in the back.  I saw Ricky and the other little rascals of Wolff St.  They were gathered in a circle in the gutter.  They were all looking down into the gutter at a black bird.

     His wings were spread out.  His flat beaded eyes flat peered back into ours.  His chest did not rise and cave with life.  The only girl in the group.

     “We have to bury him.”  I said breaking the silence.

     “Why?”  asked Ricky.

     “So he can go to heaven.”

     The group of boys looked at me and then at each other.  They nodded in agreement and we all went our separate ways to gather the tools of the trade.  Ricky returned with his mother’s gardening spade.  I made a cross of twigs from the cherry tree.  We dug; the bird was placed in the shallow grave and covered with the dirt.  Ricky looked at me and said “now what?”

     “A prayer.  Bless this bird God.  Amen.”

    “Amen.”

   “ Think he went to heaven yet?”

    “ Let’s see.”

     The cross was removed.  The sacred ground violated.  The bird remained.