I was seven when I encountered death for the first time.

The bird lay on its back by the curb in front of my house. It was small. A sparrow, or something similar.

It had been dead for several days, the cause forever unknown. You could tell because the body had started to decompose. Little ribs where skin and feathers should have been. And there were flies. Lots of flies, which led me to my discovery in the first place.

I was in my yard and noticed a cloud of them buzzing around something just out of sight (due to the curb). I approached cautiously. I felt shock – and also mild fear – when I first came upon the animal. Until then, death was only something I pretended about in games of cops and robbers, or G.I. Joe. I internalized this moment, yet never spoke to my parents about it. Some things you just keep to yourself.

I felt sad for the little bird. I checked on it daily – three days in a row – until suddenly it was gone. A neighbor, or maybe my father, probably noticed it and tossed it into the woods.