“Oh yeah…” Sage said, getting up from the floor. She stepped over loose patches, thread, and piles of clippings. “I guess I can give this to you now.” She moved into the foyer and grabbed a white bag, handing me a shoebox.
Sage filled two small bowls with red beans and served us each two slices of white bread. All was silent except for the rhythmic and predictable sounds of us dipping small pieces of bread into our bowls, our lips smacking as our tongues and teeth wrapped around the bean and bread sandwich, and the clinking of our spoons on the table. Every few minutes our eyes met. I scanned her face, resting my gaze on the blackened half-circle below her right eye.
“What in god’s name happened?” she yelled, her feet sinking into the dirt as she stomped towards us.
“What time is it?” I grumbled, trying to wipe the sweat sliding down my spine. “She should be here already.”
“How many baby birds do you think are up there?” I asked Sage.
“You’re getting close, little one,” she sang.
“I don’t think she’s coming,” Sage said. “But we can have our own funeral.”