“Did you take a photo of her?” This was the first thought that crossed my mind. It barrelled out of my mouth and into Blondies ears. And for some reason that question got to me. Right in my chest. Slammed dunked hard against the ribs crushing the soft fleshy red meat inside that makes up my organ that feelings emanate from. “Did you take a photo of her when she was out? I dunno— pecking away?” I repeated, elaborating now with a mixture of disbelief and panic. “Something— just something that shows us she was here? — That she existed?.”

A photo is a peculiar thing. It’s a snapshot of a moment frozen in eternal human-rationalised-time. Once taken that mark is gone forever never to be repeated or seen again. Unless you follow the dogmatic way of the Quantum overlords, but then that rabbit hole dear reader is not for this soft tale. 

The tale goes like this: This morning I saw a fox hold a chicken in its jaws. Clamped in the mandibles, his eyes wide open and very still. Staring at me, frozen. Hoping that its shallow movement would somehow act like an invisibility cloak. The fool was utterly wrong. A plume and massacre of feathers surrounded the scene as I lept across wet sodden branches and found this poor chicken, named only a mere hour ago Mrs. Hen, still alive at a loss of what to do with herself. One moment, in the jaws of its Reaper, now held in the arms of the person who was supposed to have kept her safe. 

We had chickens growing up. Lots as you often do. They used to follow us like dogs across the dry landscapes of southern Spain. And often too would peck at the dog food, with the dogs looking on stupefied with a bewildered look on their faces with fear to approach and own what was there’s in the first place. There was usually a smell of herbs in the air, and sheep, horses and cats alike would sometimes join these walks that now serve as a memory or a mark also gone. The point here is, I was confident I knew what I was doing by letting her out. I knew the lay of the land. But those frozen eyes, and the blood dripping from her back held me hostage and reclaimed my very own stupidity. 

As I propped her back in her cage, I thought “Here now, you’re safe”. I lifted my finger, and with the back of my hand I let her feel my hand stroking her soft golden orange neck. A sense of relief began to ooze back into my mood. Hearing the death rattle of a creature across a homely garden is to any empath a sound that rings through ones soul. A call to action to anyone who cares perhaps. And I was shocked to have seen this scene unfold In the way that it did. But the relief soon faded as I looked down and witnessed a few droplets of blood slam against the muddy floor of the chicken coop. Her poor back end had taken the brunt of this bastards jaws, and in place of its teeth now lay a gash, open and red. Poor girl. I felt for her and her innocence as she perched unknowing of what to do with herself. 

An evening passed, and the next morning the hopes that she would make a recovery and survive became bleak indeed. Her eyes barely open, her nose blocked by mucous were all signs that she had a temperature and that bastards fangs carried the bacteria of Londons sodden underworld. I spend any time I could with her. Gently stroking her and telling her to let go when she felt ready. I cried. I could hear her trying to breathe, her soft tiny lungs working hard with her beak partially blocked. The effort pained her so much that she would let out a very soft cry every so often. I felt guilty as hell. Helpless like a dog and wished for nothing more than for her to feel ok again. I wished I hand’t let her out. 

“Did you take a photo of her?” Something to show that she existed?”. I think that’s why that question hurt me that day. The thought that I wouldn’t be able to see her again. That like memories in photos I could reference to keep her alive in some way. Gone. There was nothing there to remember her by. And perhaps that is the point of this tale, to leave a mark of her soft gentle Being. To remember her as she was.

Her name was Mrs. Hen. And lived in a small backyard in Brockley, England. With a family of other chickens. She enjoyed to peck all over the floor and her feathers glistened gold with the sunshine. She was a very brave and innocent creature that deserved more. But for now, this is her mark that she existed. That she was seen. And she was cared for, and loved over for a short while. And hopefully dear reader, you’ll remember her, think of her life and feel her in any small way through my words. 

I’m sorry for letting you out. I only wanted you to feel free. 

D x