After we effectively trapped our prey in the box, Keith and I had to open the top of the box, careful not to let any of the blackbirds escape, so we could jump inside. We crawled around in the box, bumping into each other and into the walls. The birds flew around in a panic with their black wings in a fluster, pecking at our bodies, smashing into our heads, and doing anything they could to get out of what had been a bird’s haven only moments before.

If you had been at my house as a spectator, I imagine this scene would have been quite a sight to see.

Keith and I swatted at the birds, grabbing onto them as quickly as we could. As they pecked and smashed and pecked some more, Keith and I just laughed at the sheer absurdity of our situation. Here we were, two poor kids, trapped in a box with a bunch of crazy birds — and as ludicrous as it was, we fully accepted our duty because our daddy told us to.

We knew that our situation was wrong and there were many things that we would have been happier doing at that time. However, we all pulled our weight in that house and we always came to terms with what we had to do, no matter how odd it was. And sometimes the best way to get through something crazy is to just smile and laugh your way through it. So that’s exactly what we did.

Even as we twisted the birds’ heads off and massacred every last one of them, we kept laughing because that was what we had to do to get ourselves through it. We knew our situation was bizarre, but that was the only lifestyle we knew.

However, we also knew enough to stop laughing once the hardest part of our job was done because in reality, there was really nothing funny about what we had to do.

Once we killed those 40 or 50 blackbirds, we crawled out of that box and kept our mouths shut. We had nothing to say to each other because there was really nothing that we could say. The only person we could talk to was my mom, so that’s where I went.

I was already distressed over what Keith and I had just done, and the last thing I wanted to do was spend any more time with those feathery carcasses. I walked in the house and said, “Mom, we’ve got to go clean those damn blackbirds now. Why doesn’t he get his ass out there and clean them himself?”

Ever the patient woman, my mom smiled a sympathetic smile at me and said, “Baby, you know how he is. There’s nothing you can say about it, so just do it please.”

I was going to do it anyway because I knew I had to, but I could never say no to anything my mama asked of me.

So heading back into the silence, I rejoined Keith in the yard and we tossed our soon-to-be dinner into a five gallon bucket. I don’t think we made a sound as we threw the birds into boiling water for easier plucking and we stayed silent while we gutted the blackbirds and cut out their breasts. Then we continued to do our work quietly as we got rid of the legs, thighs, and everything else that was of no use to us because it was either too small or too gross to eat.

By the time we got to that point, there was really nothing left to say. We did what we had to do — what our dad made us do — and our work was done. The meat was ready and soon our mom would cook up the blackbird breasts with a bit of brown gravy and rice. We would eat and then we would never have to talk about it again.

The problem with things that you think you’ll never have to talk about again is that those are the things that usually haunt you the most.

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