Three Rings and a Window to Heaven

Three and a half months ago, we opened the door and sidestepped the bird. The poor thing had died right at the front step. It was terribly sad, I thought, to die. Even worse with a landlord who’d leave you to the insects. This morning, though, the bird is months-gone, and Katie and I open the door again and set out to walk. We take the route we take because of the houses. They’re gorgeous, I say. No two alike—this one with a swing, that one with an ivied façade, this one with the lion statue. The families that live in the houses are wealthier than us. Their children play basketball in the driveways. They hire landscapers. The houses are gorgeous, I say. Halfway up Westmount, Katie stops and groans and steps back. What is it, I say? What’s wrong? She points to the bird dead on the sidewalk ahead of us. Oh, I say. Oh no. It’s sad that soon the bird will find its way to rotting, but it’s good that the families in the houses will likely save it some dignity with a timely cleanup. It doesn’t matter if the cleanup is for them or for the bird. We backtrack the way we’d come. I feel callous for my thoughts. We pass the house with the chalkboard propped on the lawn that usually has a quote or the family’s weekend board game scores. Today it says, “Three rings and a window to heaven.” No attribution. We don’t get the reference, but figure it is very poetic sounding. I look it up but can’t find a thing.