Free The Year of Billy Miller by Kevin Henkes Page A

say a word—as he approached Mama her eyelids fluttered up. She closed her book, sat tall, patted the space beside her, and said, “Sit by me.”
    Billy did. “Where’s Dad?” he asked.
    “He’s in the garage. He wanted to work a little longer before bed.” She tipped her head toward his. “What’s up? Trouble sleeping?”
    Billy held up his poetry journal. “I was supposed to work on my poem about you.” He paused. “I forgot.”
    “Do you have anything to show me?” asked Mama.
    “I already wrote two poems, but Ms. Silver said to write another one.”
    “Let’s see what you’ve got so far,” said Mama.
    After she read Billy’s acrostic and haiku, Mama laughed softly. “I like them. You’ve got a great sense of humor, Billy Miller.”
    It was funny—if a parent used a kid’s full name in movies or on TV, the parent was usually angry and the kid was in big trouble. But Mama and Papa often used his full name if they were complimenting him or being all lovey-dovey.
    Billy turned to a clean page in his notebook. “Ms. Silver said I could write a list of things you like and that could be a poem. Poems don’t have to rhyme, you know.” He got his pencil ready. “Okay,” he said. “What do you like?”
    “Besides volcanoes?” Mama joked.
    Billy smiled self-consciously.
    “Okay,” said Mama. “I like being with you. I love it, actually.”
    “ Mom.”
    “I know, you can’t write that down. Well,” she said, starting over, “I like coffee.” She paused. “I like chocolate.” She paused again. She was talking very slowly so that Billy could keep up with what she was saying. His pencil was moving fast. He could fix his spelling later. “I like rainy days.” Pause. “I like—”
    All of a sudden there was a thud. Something hit the window. They both jumped at the unexpected sound.
    “What was that?” asked Billy. His heart was racing.
    “I don’t know,” Mama replied in an uncertain voice.
    Mama hurried to the window and Billy followed. It was difficult to see anything but their own reflections with the inside lights on, so Mama crossed the room to the front door. Billy was right behind her like her shadow. Mama held out her arm, making Billy wait as she turned on the porch light, opened the door, and looked around. Then she dropped her arm and walked slowly along the porch to the window.
    “It’s a bird,” said Mama. “It must have been drawn by the light.”

    Billy joined her. There was a dark clump beneath the window on the porch floor. It was motionless.
    “It’s a robin,” said Mama.
    “Is it alive?” Billy whispered. He bit his lower lip and leaned closer.
    “I don’t think so,” said Mama, crouching. “No.”
    Mama got her garden gloves and a shovel from the shed by the garage. She carried the dead bird and Billy carried the shovel to the corner of the garden.
    “Should we get Papa?” asked Billy.
    “No,” said Mama. “We’re fine.”
    It seemed to Billy that something big was happening.
    Mama put the bird down. She dug a hole under a bush. Before she placed the bird in the hole, she held it at a certain angle in the light from the street lamp so that Billy could see it clearly one last time. The orange feathers seemed unreal, too beautiful to be part of something no longer alive.
    The dead bird filled the hole as if it were filling a nest. Mama covered the bird with dirt and patted the dirt down. Billy found three stones and formed a triangle on top of the little mound.
    They stood together. Neither talked. Billy hadn’t noticed until now how hot it still was. His pajamas were damp with sweat. Dirt was sticking to his bare feet.
    Mama broke the silence. “I like quiet,” she said. “When it’s quiet you can hear so much.”
    Billy looked up at her. “But then it’s not quiet,” he said.
    “Listen,” said Mama softly. She held her finger to her lips.
    Billy listened. He didn’t hear anything at first. Then he did. He heard insects and the sound of a