The reason I do it.

I decided if I ever needed a reason to do it—whatever it is, killing cheating jumping leaving or any other thing I never thought I’d do—I’d call you and ask you if you remembered that night when we found the sad little thing, all broken and dirty feathers, and you scooped it up in a torn up pizza box, and I dug a hole with a hammer next to a tree and we gently laid it down and pushed the cold earth over him and stood there, you and I, dusting off our hands and not needing to say too much to know what it all meant. If you said yes, that you remembered that night, I’d tell you about the time I went back and dug it up just so I could bury it again. If you said no—then that would be the reason I’d be able to do the thing I never thought I’d do. You would be the reason I could do it.