It’s morning, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the kitchen while I’m waiting for the coffee to finish percolating, I glance out the mudroom window and find my mind wandering looking for my dog Zuzu. I know she died a few months ago, and yet I still look for her familiar outline sitting outside, waiting for me to take her out for our morning walk. A tiny little sparrow hops right up to my glass front door and starts picking away on the door matt. Help yourself, little fellow. Nest building requires lots of fibrous material and bravery to get it at my front door.
The decaf coffee kicks in and I start my day by watering the garden and the newly transplanted bushes.
A few days later, I find a small birds nest under the cedar where the little sparrow flew with his fiber bounty gattered from my doormat. The wind must have blown it lose overnight; the good news is there were no eggs in it. Upon carefully inspecting the nest, I could see a strand of blue plastic ribbon from a frayed tarp, grasses, and several white dog hairs from Zuzu.
My mind wanders to about what happens to our bodies when we die. Our dead bodies transform into something else; in Zuzu’s case, parts of her body became a bird’s nest.

I like my body to become a tree after I’m dead.