Chipper died.

It was Monday morning. Chris found our 15-year-old cockatiel horizontal on the bottom of the cage.

Chris petted Chip’s head feathers for the last time. We both kissed the bird good-bye.

I helped open the Ziploc bag. Chris slipped the yellow bird in it, then rolled the bag into the size of large cigar. He opened the freezer and said something but I couldn’t hear him. He cleared his throat, lowered his voice by a few octaves and said, “We’ll bury him in Vermont the next time we go.”

Miles awoke after his Dad left for work.

Part of Miles’s daily ritual is to bid the birds good morning.

I prepared Miles that there was only one bird now, not two. That Chipper was in heaven with Grammy. That we wouldn’t be able to pet him or see him any more, only in pictures.

Miles is at a speech development phase where he echoes back the last word of some of my phrases. I was trying to not cry while I spoke, but my voice was cracking and weak.

Chip-puhhh? Heh-vin? Miles would confirm at intervals. My heart, already in pieces, melted at each of his questions.

The next morning, Miles came downstairs and asked, “Yellow tweet-tweet?”

I tried for an analogy.

“You know when the battery in your monster truck dies? And the truck won’t move? It’s dead?"

“Ja,” Miles said in his best Swedish. I don’t know when he became Swedish but he does a good Ja.

“That’s what happened to Chipper’s body. It died. His heart stopped working. He stopped breathing.”

“Ja,” Miles repeated, looking into my eyes.

“We can’t go to the store and buy another body for Chipper like we do for batteries. He’s gone, he’s with Grammy in heaven. He died.”

"Ja," he blinked. "Milk?"

And that was the end of that.