Little Yellow God

Little Yellow God

My father bought me a Big Bird doll when I was five. Other girls got Barbies, pet fish, ice cream cones. But my father loved me so much he bought me this yellow-feathered bird. If you pulled the cord, words came out. He was talking to me. Sesame Street. This was how I survived things I could not speak of for years: A crazy nest. A cracked branch. But this bird. I hooked it under my arm by its long throat until we were tired out, became limp—but I loved him flawed more than I did yellow-new. I knew what it meant to be broken, even though I had a mother, a father. I wouldn't tell what happened on the playground. My skirt swishing up. The chapel. The hard bells. The wafers yellowing and tethered to my small hands.