The Earth is cold beneath my fingernails as I dig my way out back to the surface from the grave I find myself in with no recollection of how I was put in a dark hole of no return. There is nothing sitting on the dirt mound from where I crawled up. There is only rain,There is only forest. I have no idea who I am if I am anything but a naked man. A tired old one at that, with no name or even a walking stick to carry me home. Home. I must go back, back to her, my beloved. Although the pain in my leg is tiresome and feels like it just may kill me my heart beats for her as I smell the perfume on the wind. She was here, and without knowing much else, I will resolve to set back home with no worry of how I ended up in the ground to begin with. All I know is that I am a happy old man and that I am hobbling towards my home, the light of the moon and her own shoe prints being the only thing that guides me. The only thing that brings me closer to my lover's embrace. The closer I come towards our small home, I can see her silhouette from the window; She is a dark shadow against a golden glow. My lover pulls her hair up, and even from far away I know that she’s wearing my fishing sweater, and preparing for her bath. 

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In the dark silhouette as she reaches up to her hair, my sweater sleeves hang off of her, and in that moment you would swear she had wings- that she was more than skin and bones as she had been before I left her. I want to ask why. Why I found myself in the ground, where I had ever considered going without her when so desperately I needed her. These thoughts plague my mind the closer I embark. I think that I will always crawl home to her, that I will always return to my sweet wife even in death. I think about the birds outside our window in the morning, the shrikes that remind me of her so- small and chirpy, just as she always had been. 

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I stand in front of the place they will flock to when the sun comes up. She always leaves treats for them once the morning dew becomes less thick and glossy. My face is pressed against that very window, and the loss of the sight of her as she steps into the living room from the kitchen is almost too much to bear. The pain in my chest and leg screams that now is my time, that I must succumb to my injuries and die, but I know I must crawl back to her- how can I not? I yearn for her, I crave her, I’d do anything for her. Had I been placed inside a casket I would have clawed away at the wood had it assured me I would be by her once more, or in her arms. 

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My wife is a gentle woman- so when she does not hear my taps against the glass I do not grow angry. I try to hobble closer, but my legs give out from under me. The only thoughts I have are ‘very well’ and I resolve to crawl closer to her, dragging myself against the thick bladed grass and up the steep steps of our little cottage. Our poor old mutt growls lowly and yanks hard on the chain tethering him to the dog house, but the only sound I can hear is the soft scream of the tea kettle as I inch closer, pushing open the ajar door. 

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My home is warm, and as I drag myself against the tile floor of our kitchen, only a stain of red to mark that I was ever there, I see our fireplace alive and well in the living room. The bright orange flames swallow every piece of wood that she places on it. My shrike has yet to notice me, when she is finished she leaves the poker upside down in it’s holder, the sharp top pointing to the ceiling.

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As I draw closer the floorboards creak. She spins around. 

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Amidst the pain I can only grin and bear my teeth. 

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In her face I see everything, all of the years of our marriage encrusted into every deepset line and blemish in her skin. It makes me long for our bed, for the yellow sheets she picked out.

She is dressed in my fisherman sweater, in the middle of the grey tight-knit fabric is a stain similar to that which trails behind me on the kitchen floor. 

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She is quick to help me, letting out a soft grunt as she helps me to my feet and carries me closer to my chair, a beat up Lazy-Boy right beside the fire. I am filled with joy, entertaining the memory of her sitting on the arm while I prod at the fire with the poker. In her arms, my pains dissipate, in my knee and in my chest, all I feel is her warmth, her slender arms wrapped around me, her silky hair touching the side of my face and the smell of timber and floral perfume. 

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I am completely enraptured in her, so much so that at first I do not feel the poker, despite it being quite sharp. My shrike pushes me down, letting my weight collapse on top of it. My body proves for it to be too much to bear and it clatters beneath me, the poker still there. If I look down I can see the very end of its pointed blade poking through my rib cage. 

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I cannot see it, but I know the blood is red, I can feel it thickly trickling down. 

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And my beloved wife stands over me. 

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My birdy, my own little shrike. Just like the ones outside our window, who mount their prey, and place them on a spike.