Our Ashes Will Fly

II. Every Beautiful Thing

When I ask Alistair what he was doing in the tree, I kind of mean “are you really a phoenix and what you are doing here, and why did you decide to show up and talk to me of all people?”

            But Alistair simply says, “There were some nice leaves at the top. I wanted them. For my nest, you know? I want it to be nice.”

            “ You what?”

            “My nest.” Alistair scoots a little closer to me, until there’s only a thin sliver of grass between us. I can feel the warmth radiating off his skin.

            Alistair tells me about his nest, so matter-of-fact, throwing  out phrases like “when I burst into flames” and “for when the next phoenix is reborn” with a casual shrug of his shoulders. His hair, which goes halfway down his neck, tosses back and forth every time he moves.

            When a phoenix dies, (He never says dies. He says burns, like that’s supposed to be a comforting euphemism) it builds itself a nest, and crawls into it, and just ignites. The nest is supposed to be comfortable, because after all, one is dying it in, and another is going to be born from the ashes it in. The phoenix’s nest is a morgue and the birthing wing of a hospital, all at once.

            The nest Alistair was born in was made out of leaves and branches. He didn’t think about it then, because he was glad to be born. But then he looked down, at the rotting leaves and the broken twigs, and decided he would leave something better.

            So he’s collecting things. He keeps them tucked inside his wings, until he needs them. He shakes his wings like a woman shakes out her purse when searching for her keys, and his collection spills out onto the grass between us.

            He has a couple dollar bills, with phone numbers scribbled across them, numbers probably never called. There’s a Wal-Mart receipt, dropped by someone who purchased baby diapers and sympathy cards. He has an empty pack of gum, and a crinkled piece of notebook paper.

            I unfold it, laying it flat across the grass. Annie luvs Houston, it says. Someone’s love note. I wonder which one of them crinkled it up.

            He also has someone’s old math homework— Algebra II, judging from how hard it looks— and a plane ticket and the wrapper from a Subway sandwich. There’s a map of England, with a giant heart drawn over London in red Sharpie.

            Something links it all together. They’re all easy to burn. Different little bits of different people’s lives, but they’ll all burn up, someday. And those little bits of lives will be gone forever.

            “It’s a good collection,” I say, but I feel sick thinking about. So many beautiful things going up in flames. Him, going up in flames.  

            “Thanks. It’s going to be a good nest, and I have even more time to work on it. And tonight, you can help me find more.”