She used a knitting needle to scratch thin, vertical lines into the wall behind our bed.
She did this whenever she heard the pheasant's call,
and she had done so for as long as I'd known her.
The wall was covered in needle strokes from wooden floor to ceiling.
The number of calls dictated the number of scores;
Why do you keep doing this? I once asked, running my fingers over a series of sharp marks.
We'd only just begun seeing each other at the time; I had not yet come to accept her bizarre rite.
She had merely shrugged,
her shoulders stiffening against my desperate question.
I'm not sure I want to talk about it. Let's just say it's something necessary.
I never brought it up again.
Over the years, I memorized the ritual and somehow felt its importance.
It was always performed with the utmost solemnity and respect.
Each step undertaken with great care -
a slow, deliberate funeral procession of one.
She'd cradle the needle like a fragile artifact held in the palms of her hands.
Then, she'd listen for the call,
and make her simple etchings accordingly, cleaning the needle with a warm, wet cloth afterward.
I'd watch this performance - silent - and marvel at the intimate, maternal manner
with which she'd return the needle its basket,
tucking it into its nest; all the while listening for the frenzied beating of the pheasant's wings.
I didn't know where the pheasant came from or even how long it has been coming.
I only knew that it came every week,
usually in the morning, but sometimes at night; I'd seen it from the bedroom window.
Don't look at it, she'd once scolded. You're not supposed to look at it.
I wanted so desperately to describe it to her -
the elongated tail, white reverend's collar, blood-stained face. But I kept it for myself.
I often wondered what would happen once the wall was filled.
Would she move on to another?
Would she turn to herself - perfectly straight cuts in tender tissue, severing ligaments?
This morning, I woke to the pit-pat-pat of rain against the roof, and I heard the truncated call.
Ka-ka-kow. Ka-ka-kow.
She completed the sacred task. The pheasant's wings pounded against the rain. Beat-pulse-beat.
