The graveyard was quiet on December 29th, and warm for this time of year. The sky was bright today, sunlight gently warming the stones. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp leaves. Overhead, bare branches swayed gently, shaking droplets to the soft ground with a gentle drip-drip. Yanni Yogi's rain boots sank into the mud as he walked among the gravestones.

He came to a stop before a plain, flat stone. Polly Jenkins, read the engraving. 1970-2001. Beloved fiancée. May your soul fly free.

Yanni spread out a worn gingham blanket beside the gravestone and settled onto it. He set down a basket and opened it, taking out the contents one by one: a simple picnic for two, a candle, a handful of wildflowers. Last of all was a walnut, hollowed out and resealed with tree sap.

"Hello, Polly," he said. "I brought you another friend."

- O -

Like clockwork, each Polly died in winter. They were supposed to live for decades or more, parrots of Polly's size, and Yanni was never quite sure what became of his. He guessed that the seasonal cold was bad for her health. Parrots were tropical birds, but then again, his little shack was kept warm. Heaters lined the corner where Polly's perch stood. But still, as December crept on, she lost first her energy, next her words, and lastly her feathers as she succumbed each year.

The first time that Polly died had been like losing the last scraps of his Polly all over again. He was newly acquitted, a free man—free to walk the world, but he'd paid all the same. The pieces of his former life lay in shards at his feet: his career, his reputation, and most of all, his beloved fiancée. The empty days stretched before him like the depths of Gourd Lake: endlessly vast, endlessly dark. But just before he tipped headfirst to be swallowed up by that swirling void, a flash of color stopped him short.

The crimson baby parrot that dropped into his boat was his first Polly. She was lost, helpless, and dependent on his mercy, and he found he couldn't bring himself to leave her hungry. So he endured, day after endless day, and she grew. He began to learn. First just necessities: her favorite snacks and how to care for her feathers. Then, he began to notice other things too: her vibrant colors, and the satisfaction in teaching her a new word. By the time spring turned into summer, to his surprise the sun could shine again.

- O -

"Happy anniversary, love," Yanni said to the gravestone. "The Lake was beautiful this year. Still no sign of Gourdy. I doubt there will ever be, but you always hoped. If I ever get a photo, I'll bring it to show you." As he spoke, he set out the picnic: a cup of fish stew for each of them, hot from a thermos. A little pear tart topped with almond slivers and iced tea poured from a bottle. He lit the candle between them and set the wildflowers in a glass, completing the spread.

He narrated as he ate. "The tree you planted flowered this year and bore fruit. Some of the pears dropped off early, and the birds and squirrels got some, but I saved a few. I baked them into tarts for you. I hope you like them." He took a bite of his own tart then and made a face. "A little bitter, but grown with love," he said, smiling softly. "You would've been proud of them."

He finished eating, slurping the last drops of his stew, and wiped his face on his sleeve. Next, he brought out a book. "The Complete Works of Alfred Lord Tennyson, your favorite." He read for hours, until the afternoon was gone. The candle had burned down to a stub, the flame was flickering, and the sun lay low in the sky.

He always ended with Polly's favorite poem. "Sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me. . . Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark." The dying candle seemed in that moment indistinguishable from the stars above, poetic in his melancholy. The light of a soul passing from Earth to sky.

As night fell, Yanni poured out the cold stew around the gravestone, crumbled the tart, and scattered the crumbs. He lay the wildflowers on the stone. Finally, the walnut, a single ounce of ashes inside. He buried it shallowly beside the gravestone and lay a smooth pebble on top, the last in a neat row of pebbles. "Meet Polly XIV," he said, sniffling a little. "You'll love her."

He stood there a while longer, listening to the wind and the waves and the whispering stars. At last, he bent down and kissed the stone. "I'll see you next year, alright?" he said, his voice low and heavy with grief. "I love you."

- O -

The days between Polly's death and New Year's were always the hardest. He knew, he remembered, and yet the lonely shack never failed to surprise him. Without another living, breathing soul to fill the space, the room teemed with regrets, and all the heaters combined could not hold back the cold. Everywhere he looked, the world was filled with happy couples and their New Year's kisses and their New Year's resolutions, their fragile, tenuous futures, their hopes and dreams.

In a self-deprecatory mood, he sat down on New Year's Eve and mockingly wrote out some resolutions. First on the list was revenge, that hadn't changed. Next was get a different job, another old constant, equally impossible. From there, his pen drifted, and his face softened. Read more poems appeared on the list, and further down, take care of the pear tree. And at the very bottom, double-underlined and marked with an asterisk, do not take on another Polly. Hot tears splattered on the paper; angrily, he wiped them away. Every Polly in his life was destined to die.

In the morning, there she was on his doorstep: a fledgling parrot, pink and damp with downy feathers poking through in tufts. She was shivering and helpless. Nowhere to go.

For a fraction of a second, Yanni stared at her and imagined leaving her there. He could let his heart shrivel until the wound dulled and ceased to bleed. He wouldn't have to feel, ever again. He could be free.

He thought of bright feathers and a warm, beating heart, and he laughed at himself for even thinking it: as if he could ever be anything different. As if he could ever choose to stop loving Polly.

He took the bird inside and placed her in the nest he'd had ready and waiting, and brought out the feed mixture he'd already prepared. "Hello," he said to her. "Your name is Polly XV."

"Hello, hello," she squeaked back.