by Emma Williquette
Sole survivor of three separate attacks on the chicken coop on our friends’ farm.
I named her Penny because I was twelve years old, she had copper feathers, and my creative expertise was quite lacking.
I was not permitted to have animals inside the house.
Or outside the house.
Or anywhere near the house.
Penny was a compromise.
Penny was mine in the way that my childhood friend across the ocean is mine.
Inseparable despite being separated.
The three attacks went as follows: a fox through the fence, a raccoon through the roof, and a cat through a crack in the wall.
My child self liked to imagine that Penny was the world champion at hide and seek;
That’s why she never got found in the coop attacks.
I did not understand that the world champion of hide and seek could not hide from everything.
Penny fell ill soon after I turned fourteen.
Cancer.
She went with such grace, according to our friends.
That first visit to an empty coop was eerie.
The back right corner where Penny slept still had her feathers and an indent.
I cried and cried and cried.
They handed me a shovel.
I still remember where her grave is. It’s under the big tree by the old garden boxes.
I dug it myself.
I was quite experienced with death by that point, and I always wondered.
Do we bury what we love,
because we cannot stop ourselves from plucking memories from it like feathers?
You can run your hands over fresh dirt or the indent left in a nest,
but Penny will keep winning at hide and seek for the rest of your life.
Emma Williquette is an emerging writer residing in Oregon. In her spare time, she enjoys crocheting, philosophical chats with her cat, and listening to her extensive CD collection. Her poem ‘An Ode to Jeff’ appears in Bitter Melon Review. She can be found on Instagram (@ewilliquette) and on Substack (@williquette).