— I raised her since she was a chick, Dottie said softly, almost to herself. She was the only one who survived that harsh winter. My husband built her coop with his own hands.
Junie clung tighter to Clove, and the bird, strangely, seemed to calm in her arms.
— After he left, Dottie continued, Clove remained the only constant. She waited for me every morning. But now… she can’t climb the ramp anymore. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t lay eggs.
I ran my hand through my daughter’s hair, feeling her tremble slightly.
— And you wanted to… let her go? I asked, with some hesitation.
— Not because I want to, dear, but because I can’t bear to see her suffer.
Junie looked into her eyes.
— But maybe… maybe she just doesn’t want to be alone, she whispered. Like grandpa, when he held our hands.
There was a heavy silence. Three generations and a chicken, in the middle of a yard, each with an unspoken pain.
Dottie leaned down, took off her gardening gloves, and left them on the fence. Then she slowly approached.
— Maybe you’re right, little one. Maybe it’s not her time. Maybe she just needed someone.
Junie smiled wide. It was the first time in many weeks that I saw that complete smile. After grandpa’s death, she had closed herself off a lot. She hadn’t cried much, but she had lost the sparkle in her eyes.
— Can we take care of her? she asked. Just a little. Just until she gets better.
Dottie looked at Clove, then at Junie, then at me.
— Only if you promise to let her hold your hand when you’re sad. Just like you did with grandpa.
Junie nodded.
— And that you’ll ask her what she dreams about when you catch her sleeping, Dottie continued.
— I promise, Junie said.
And so, Clove became the “emotional support chicken,” as my brother joked later.
Weeks passed. Clove didn’t suddenly start flying or laying eggs again. But she began to rise. To peck. To look for Junie around the yard.
And Junie? She started talking about school again. Singing. Writing letters “to grandpa and Clove.”
One morning, when I went out with tea on the porch, I saw my daughter sitting with Clove in her lap, holding a book, reading to her.
— What are you reading to her? I asked.
— About how stars are born, she replied. Maybe chickens have their own stars too.
I smiled.
I don’t know if Clove understood. But I know for sure that Junie was beginning to understand. About suffering. About love. About promises made to those who cannot speak but feel everything.
And maybe, in a strange way, a little stubborn chicken helped us all heal.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or how characters are portrayed and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
