Bury the Bird

She pushes her plate to one end of the table. She did not even notice grains of rice scattering to the floor. Gist me, ehn. How is that your oyinbo boyfriend? I smiled shyly—tugging at my crop top. We call her the cool aunty. Everyone has an aunt who has spent their entire life in America and visits only once every five years. Now I am an aunt living in America with my aunt. I change the subject and tell her I don’t understand Halloween. I tell her how every morning, I step out of the apartment to the sight of a skeleton wearing a helmet and a red sweatshirt. I don’t know what to make of the cobwebs and the Jack-o’-lanterns. I sometimes don’t know what to do with myself. Is it a thing about moving to a new country? She tucked my braids to the back of my ear and mouthed something about my hair growing like it was on a booster. We will talk about Halloween later. I could take you to one or two places when the time comes, but for now, let’s talk about your oyinbo boyfriend. I smiled—I do not tell her that I often view my relationship as the bird my little sister saved when we were teenagers. The next day, it died in a small cage she had made for it, and she called me so we could bury the bird. I do not tell her I sometimes look at my lover the way I stared at my little sister that day while she cried for the bird. Did she not know it would die? Did she not know birds are meant to fly freely? I joined in the solemn song, not wanting to undermine her love for the dead bird. The way I follow my lover everywhere, tasting all the strange meals, learning a new accent, and floating when my feet could no longer carry me. For once, I tell my overthinking brain to pause. I tell myself to enjoy the moment.