Teddy died on Tuesday. On Wednesday, you knit him a new heart out of bright yellow yarn. He always liked his eggs sunny-side up, the yolk filling the plate when forked. You want his new heart to remind him of this meal.
Your yarn heart is so anatomically correct, it pumps in my hand like a newborn bird.
Teddy is buried on Friday without the yarn heart in his body. We never had the time or chance to revive him. We never really had a plan.
Once the casket is lowered, you throw the heart in among people’s handfuls of dirt. After we leave, birds unravel our gift, using the last living part of Teddy to build their nests.
Erik Fuhrer is the author of not human enough for the census, forthcoming from Vegetarian Alcoholic Press. His prose has been published, or is forthcoming, in The Airgonaut, Pidgeonholes, Milk Candy Review, and various other venues. His website is erik-fuhrer.com.