I like to dream of my grandparents’ house. It stood at the top of a long grassy slope which drifted down to the lake. In summer, we would fly down the hill on whatever we could find to serve as a sled. Grandpa helped us make kites. We would lie on our backs on the grass, and let them flutter out over the water. In winter, there was no snow. But the breeze came just as cold off the lake. We had the guest room at the top, under the peak of the roof. We left the windows open and snuggled under our blankets and comforters, pretending we were Eskimos. We’d wake to find the window closed and the room warming from below.

Now I dream of that house, that room, and I find hope against my bedtime fears: the job, the bills, and death. I like to wake up in the morning, and before I open my eyes, picture that good old house around me. I take my waking slow, and I can almost hear the wood creaking, the water in the pipes and the happy breathing of children.

That’s where I was this morning, and I was happy. Grandpa was on his couch watching the Dodgers. Grandma was washing the dishes after lunch, glowing in the light from the window over the sink. I stood watching them, remembering how he watched the game with the sound turned off; he didn’t need the announcers’ idle chat. I tried to keep the scene in my mind as I showered, but it was gone by the time I brushed my hair and teeth.

I was tying my necktie when I looked out into my small back yard and saw the bird on the ground, flapping and struggling, dragging one wing. I felt bad. It was just a little sparrow, one of countless nondescript brown birds that flitted in and out of the hedges of countless homes like mine. I wished it didn’t have to suffer, but I had a meeting. Besides, I thought the lingering death of a bird was God’s business. His alone.

When I got home, the bird was gone. I searched yard from fence to fence, but there was nothing. I thought maybe a cat heard the flapping and came, but there was not even a feather. It wasn’t something so much sad as strange, and I thought about it as I ate dinner and watched TV. When I kicked off my socks at bedtime, I had the question firmly in his mind: where are all the dead birds?

*note: to the extent you may believe there’s any such thing, this is fiction.