The canary died. There was running and screaming and light and dark. But before the bird died there was work. There was my father covered in soot. There was my father with lungs black with smoke. Lungs so caked with coal dust that with the right amount of pressure they’d turn precious and glittering. Instead, abused and worked to their limit. Unable to fill fully. Over worked and underpaid. There was my father with the bird and a light. His boots and a pick. There was the bird golden and slight. A beacon underground. There was my father and a bird and their last, gasping breaths buried underground. Lost between the light and the dark.