It Doesn't Get Any Easier.

My little Gilly-bird died. Mick and I are equally heartbroken. I miss her beautiful feathers, her horrible screechy singing that make you laugh that something so grating could come from such a pretty little bird, I miss the way she watched us all like a queen overseeing her subjects build a temple in her honor.

We buried her next to Irving, wrapped in a pink silk scarf. Lying there, she just looked to bright and colorful to be dead, and she made the plants around her seem faded.

And that's how Mick and I feel now. Sorta faded.