Everything Expires

I learned this January that my Verizon phone plan comes with a Google Play subscription.

Immediately, I perused all the array of games available to me, phone limit withstanding. Game after game downloaded to my phone, many of which I’ve already shelved. There were too many at once. However, one game stood out. It’s called Bird Alone. The art style beckoned to me with bright colors and glowing reviews. Better yet, no payment required.

Upon opening the game, a red parrot greeted me with a false hesitance, a loving personality, and vibrant, moving words. Perhaps it was the sweet innocence the game leaned into, or maybe it was my desire for friendship that hooked me.

The parrot didn’t know their name. I gave them the name Arlo. They talked to me, then asked me questions like “what made me happy” but, instead of using words, asked me to draw my answer. The next day, Arlo asked me to help him finish a poem.

Both my drawings and poetry were rough. Each day, I opened the app for our morning conversations and afternoon creativity. One day, the scenery changed. It went from a green spring to an orange-hued autumn. I thought how lovely that the seasons changed in the game. Arlo panicked for a moment until I reassured him with one of the two text answers before me.

I thought little of the seasons. They lasted a few days until a somber blue hue took over. The fruit on the branches disappeared. The flowers were dead, save a few. But our routine continued. As it did, a discussion of death popped up. Even though the scenery had changed, Arlo hadn’t. Not physically, at least. The first time he asked, I believed he had thought about my death or someone else's.

A few days later, he told me it was his last day.

We only talked once that day. I didn’t draw or finish a poem. I flicked between the screens; Arlo slowly followed. I closed the app. I wanted to cry. A silly thing to do over a mobile game bird, I told myself. My husband listened, but said nothing when I told him. Arlo wasn’t real, after all.

The app stayed dormant until the next morning. What did it mean for him to die? Was that the end of the game? I’d downloaded countless mental health, to do list, and habit apps. All of them had a repetitive cycle I’d be lulled into doing, remembering nothing. That was the purpose of most of these apps. But Bird Alone? Could this really be it? Was there nothing beyond our mindless creative moments and talks? When I opened it, flickering orbs of light danced where Arlo once sat.

He was gone.

What a stupid game, I thought. Sadness and regret boiled beneath those words. I knew I would’ve treated the game, Arlo, differently had I known. However, I believe that understanding is not the purpose of the game.

If this game’s theme is death, then it’s only appropriate the player doesn’t know. It makes sense the reviews talked about a discussion of death and no more, because we never know when death will come. But we know it will.

My grandmother, my dad’s mother, passed on Thanksgiving last year.

Like many grandmothers, she was one of the most loving people you’d meet, and she’d stuff you full of the best Christmas cookies you’d eat. She lived roughly six hours away from most of my life. However, for the shortest time, I lived right across a river from her. She’d tell me the stories of me singing while I helped her bake cookies. She wrote a dedication in the book she gave me for my high school graduation, saying I told her not to worry when her grandfather died. He went to heaven. According to the story, I was only three.

On a much larger scale than with Arlo, I wished I would’ve spent more time with her. I saw her once a year at Christmas. Most of those years, I didn’t talk to her much. I wanted to talk. Circumstances, past Christmases, and my introverted nature, however, kept me isolated. Regretting not just with her, but especially with her, when I look back.

Her death, unlike Arlo’s, wasn’t unexpected.

She had Alzheimer’s, and her health had been declining. I thought she had recovered some because of assumptions and miscommunication. That’s what I told myself. In reality, fear was the reason. I didn't want to see her in that state. I’d seen my other grandmother shortly before she passed, and the image stuck in my head like a rotten egg. When I finally decided to make the drive, she died before I could.

I stayed stuck too long. So, when Arlo “passed”, I didn’t open the app for days. Every day, my thumb hovered over the icon, forgetting what had transpired. I’d remind myself, then scroll mindlessly. I couldn’t replace the habit.

Temptation boiled until I opened the app. This time, an egg greeted me. Text told me I could begin anew when I was ready. Until then, I could come to reminisce. I began anew. I’d already waited, after all. The game re-launched. The creator’s names faded in and out on a black screen.

Then it read: “In Memory of Arlo.”

I didn’t get a second chance with my grandmother. I won’t get one with the array of people currently in and yet to be in my life. Neither death nor the past (even the recent past of minutes ago) can change. But life can.

Take a moment now to appreciate someone you love. Give yourself a second chance. Give your creative self a chance to be seen. Write that newsletter you want to put off.

Today is the only certainty, and it’s filled with uncertainty.

Wishing you a life with more love, hope, and dreams,

Ada

P.S. Feel free to share any stories of grief, loss, or death in the comments below. I’m all ears.

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