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He’s walking rounds in the park when the call comes. They catch up like usual, meandering along familiar routes. What’s expected are her usual ramblings, which he’s learned to endure, if not love, across state lines. Along the way, she tells him that her hens are dead. This surprises him: not their death, but that he is being told a year later.

He senses that she wants to move the conversation forward, as if expecting a lack of warmth and understanding. But something urges him to linger in what was said, to stay in the pocket of the wound. A space opens between them, where grief begins to speak. It tells him of a tumultuous family history, loved ones pulling away, the desire for suicide. It tells him her family had said “they’re just hens” before hanging up the phone.