Free Winter Birds by Jamie Langston Turner

disposal of my body and have left them in a sealed envelope with my lawyer, to be delivered to Patrick at the time of my death. I have told Patrick that there will be no transfer of money if the instructions are not followed. All of this depends, of course, upon the trustworthiness of my lawyer and of Patrick. Either could find ways to circumvent my wishes.
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    It is Friday, five days after my move to the back bedroom, and Rachel is in my apartment with a can of furniture polish and a dust-rag. She has been at work all day and is now finishing with the cleanup from the plaster removal. True to the white electrician’s word, the plaster dust, also white, found its way into my apartment, a fine film over every exposed surface. Patrick had the foresight to cover my furniture with old bed sheets. True to his predictions, the rewiring project took longer than originally planned. Patrick prides himself on his ability to prophesy the difference between a person’s stated intentions and reality.
    I am sitting in my recliner watching Rachel dust the blinds of the four large windows. She has already polished the windowpanes and vacuumed the sills and the blinds, moving the wand slowly back and forth. Now she sprays her cloth and runs it over the length of each wooden slat, top and bottom. This takes time. She does not hurry.
    To the casual observer watching her clean my apartment, she would appear to have no method, but I am not a casual observer. I believe there is a master plan behind her actions. This much I know: She has saved the windows for last. After the blinds she will be done. Then she will proceed to the other rooms of her house, I presume, and by the time she finishes, it will be time, as my mother used to say, to start the whole shebang over. Housework is a discouraging proposition. I have had my fill of it and have stipulated as one of the conditions of my winter hospice the privilege of watching someone else do it.
    Except for her normal Friday laundry chore, Rachel has devoted today to my apartment. Her kitchen and dining room have remained untouched. Large sheets of plastic still hang over her cupboards. Patrick asked the white electrician to leave the plastic sheeting up. “We’ll take it down after all the dust has had time to settle,” he told the man. The electrician and his helper cleaned up their mess, after a fashion. They picked up all their tools and disposed of the loose pieces of debris. They vacuumed the floor with their own high-powered machine, which sounded like the landing of an aircraft in Rachel’s kitchen. They plugged the appliances into their new sockets and moved them back into place.
    I have walked back and forth between the spare bedroom and my apartment today, tracking Rachel’s progress. The days have gone slowly in my temporary quarters, with much clatter at the other end of the house. I have found the major television networks to be poor substitutes for the TV Oldies channel, which the smaller television does not pick up. Live with Regis and Kelly , The Price Is Right , As the World Turns , The 700 Club —these are samples of the daytime offerings on the television brought in from Patrick’s study. At night it’s the news and Wheel of Fortune and the so-called reality shows.
    I have an idea for a reality show. Set up a camera at the back door of a funeral home. Follow the journey of a corpse from its arrival to its installment inside a casket, all pickled, painted, and propped to receive guests. Then film the faces of all the people who come to “view the body” and record their platitudes as they extend comfort to the grieving family. Then set up a camera outside the same funeral home and watch the same people exit. Record their cheerful plans for the next meal, show their eyes scanning the sky to check the weather for tomorrow’s golf game, observe them hurrying to their cars to get on with their lives.
    Take care to film the family, also. Zoom in on their faces, amplify the