Cold chick A chick died of smothering cold. The blanket couldn’t save it. I was on its death bed, when it stretched its feet for what became the final time. I could do nothing. My sister had been the one doting on it, running out to announce that it was dying. My sister wailed. I got down, kneeling beside her, patting her back towards my chest, feeling the tears in my own eyes, kissing her forehead. Then she began to sob softly, the warmest sobs I’d ever heard. How best to mourn a chick that died of cold. A chick we fought for, ran out in defence for against hawks, kites and eagles. Our defence walls for the cold were perforated and broken. We lost that battle before it even began on one chick. What unpredictable next killer is going to rid us of another? And when? I started into nothing for what seemed like a year for time had stopped by then. Minutes of silence in respect of the chick’s absence. What better way to mourn a chick whose squeals we won’t be hearing anymore.