I told my daughter that she needed to help me burn all the trees in our yard. It had to be done. I couldn’t see my husband anymore. His intense black eyes, eyes that stared at me for too long. His grey teeth were sharp enough to tear me to pieces when he felt the need. The beautiful, blue shine of his black hair that was soft as down. It was all too much for me to handle anymore.  

           

My daughter started crying when I told her to help me. Her cheeks turned red from the river of tears streaming from her blue eyes. They were sharp, like his used to be, but I had to look past them. The pain of seeing him every day was too much.

I didn’t want to kill my husband, but he was already dead. I had grieved his death when the officer had knocked on my door 5 years ago. I got over the fact that he had been lost at sea and his body would never be seen again. I moved with my then 5-year-old daughter—a child he had never known. We left that house. It was too much then and it's too much now.

 

But still, she cried. I knew it was because she didn’t want to lose her father a second time, but it had to be done. I pulled her with me into the yard and lit the first match. I held the flame up to the dried, dying leaves of the maple tree. They grasped the flames like a wanderer in the desert to water, though it wasn’t water they took. The fire shot up the tree faster than I could turn my head. The heat overwhelmed the air and overtook my lungs. It was hard to breathe in the circle of fire around us. It swirled violently, like a tornado in the Oklahoma plains. The fire turned into talons. They lashed at me. They clawed at me. They were angry with me. There was a blurring exodus from the tree canopy and the sound of cawing grew louder as the black birds spiraled with the flames. And suddenly, it was silent.

 

Everything had become still except for the soft crackling of the burning leaves. My daughter had stopped crying and she was staring at something in one of the burning trees, but I couldn’t see what she saw.

 

Soon the fire would find him, I thought.

           

My daughter reached out a hand and whispered, “Here I am.” The flames circled her flesh but allowed her to step forward. I then saw what she did. A dark, black bird. It’s wings on fire, but it didn’t cry out. My daughter stepped closer and closer until it turned to look at us. Its beady black eyes seeing us both separately. And with one horrendous shriek, it let out a sound so piercing, so terrible, I fell to my knees.

           

It was him and here I was, obedient.