James Sallis - Ghost of a Flea

He’d adopted a pigeon. Marvin. First took to Marvin because he was apart from the rest. Something was wrong with the bird-its beak was misshapen, it hobbled when it walked, dipped when it flew. Lew’d go clambering out into the backyard whenever Marvin showed up, to put out food. He’d run off all the others; after a while Marvin learned it was okay, he could stay. One afternoon Lew found Marvin in the bag of feed. He’d got in there and it was so cramped he couldn’t get back out. Lew tipped the bag over and he walked on out. I don’t know how many times your father told me that story.

He always knew Marvin wasn’t long for this world. And over a space of weeks he watched him go down, feeding him, putting out water, talking to him the whole time. Last few days, Marvin couldn’t even get to the dish. Lew’d take it out to him and stand there while he ate, keeping the others away.

Then one morning Marvin didn’t come. Lew spent most of two days out there in the yard waiting, watching. And when he finally gave up and came in, it was as though it was all over for him, nothing else was left.

Your father went to bed. The next morning I took his coffee in and couldn’t rouse him. He wouldn’t speak to me. I’m not sure he could even see anymore. He turned his face to the wall. You know the rest.

There’s precious little. Though in a sense at least my father’s life goes on in these books, just as did all those lives he lived in his mind.

Midnight as I write this final page. I just walked out on the porch. Clouds are coming in fast over the lake, butting their blunt, dumb heads at dark sky. Soon it will be raining. He always loved storms, I remember.

I miss you, Lew.