Fifty Three

“There’s a fly in my Jell-O cube again,” I say to my stuffed parrot. “I only allow myself one treat a week and I’m not going to let you ruin it.” My parrot, Bobby Happy, refuses to engage me in conversation. He just stares out the window like he sees a bear digging through the garbage, but I know that can’t be true. His eyes are empty glass. I’m the only bear.