The air was crisp and cold with all the excruciating happiness of seeing the first blue sky of spring. A child screamed. No, it was a bird. A small brown fluff hopping around madly, as though his wing had been torn off. Standing over him was another, the proud black shadow stepping luxuriously over the paving stones. In his mouth was something small, a brown fluff with twig-like legs. The other one scratched at him and jabbed, but Death would not release his prey. He flew into a tree, followed closely by the other, screaming, crying, afraid, and Death began to eat. He held a wing under his right foot and tore at the flesh with his nose. My mother screamed and cried as they took my father away in his coffin. She shouted insults, apologized for things she had not done, prayed violently in an effort to plead him back from the dead. The air was bright and clean. I began to smell the scent of death, rotting and sharp musk, though I was sure it was not present. Soon it will be gone, and I left quickly because the scene frightened me. Death with his long nose and black eyes eats, tears, eats.

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