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Baby Bird

I am sorry, so very sorry.

I must start with this apology because I am a foul human being; one that is relentlessly being punished, and deservingly so.

My story begins with my childhood, those years when time is blurred and we lacked responsibility and knowledge of how the world worked, the time when youth is equated with the ignorance of how cruel life can be, when a child is too young to understand a tortured soul and the bleeding pain of remorse.

My childhood so far had been pleasant, though a bit lonely. My family and I lived in an “old” neighborhood meaning that the majority of the people living there were too old to have young children living at home. My only company was my little brothers, too young to be of any real interest to me. I spent most of my free time in solitary abandon outdoors with the plants and animals, and all of nature that would have me. I loved the water; I loved to wade in it, splash in it, swim in it, and most especially to paddle my canoe through it. That was when I was truly at peace, in my ignorant bliss, even more separated from the cruelties of life I had still to learn about.

I was only allowed to paddle only up our canal, a 12 ft wide, and 40 foot long body of water that ran beside our property and into the marsh that lay just beyond. Always within screaming distance from our front porch, always in the line of sight of my mother when she looked out the living room window; I was protected there. But that was fine; in fact it was even better than fine, it was wonderful because there were so many natural delights to touch, smell, see, and play with. So many different types of plants and animals to commune with, explore, and get to know.

This day I remember all too well. It was spring; beautiful, warm, and full of life’s newness. Young raccoons, muskrats, ducklings and many other creatures were starting their lives in this rich marsh, and I wanted to meet them all. Especially my favorites, the barn swallows.

Each year they would pair off and couple by couple make their mud nests, which clung like dirty grass-filled baskets to the pylons that supported our bulkhead. Each year I would paddle by, stand up in the canoe, and look into those nests to see baby birds huddled together staring back at me with expressions of frowning defiance on their beaks. I was always delighted to see them, even as un-welcomed as I was.

But on this day there was something new, something unexpected. I was welcomed by one tiny, naked baby bird.

All of Baby Bird’s siblings had already grown their pinfeathers, which were breaking through the waxy layer that covers them to reveal fluffy down. But Baby Bird had still grown none. Baby Bird’s siblings all had their eyes open and were staring at me with their frowns, but Baby Bird still had his eyes closed. The siblings were at least twice the size of Baby Bird, while his small body showed signs of weakness from not eating. He was tiny, blind, and naked. And he was struggling and suffering, that much was obvious when compared to his counterparts.

As I looked at him, he stretched his neck, beak wide open in a silent scream pleading for food. Begging with all his might for the chance to live if he only were fed. Begging with such desperation that I felt it, not just in my heart but in my soul. His body wobbled back and forth showing the failures of nature as he pleaded for life, as he pleaded for something, anything, to help him cling to life just one day longer. He was begging me and I heard that silent scream.

I quickly dropped back down into the canoe, grabbed the paddle, and rowed back to the house as quickly as I could. I threw the paddle up on shore, dragged my canoe onto the sand, and ran into the house. My mother who was in the kitchen asked me what I was doing as I grabbed bits and pieces of food and shoved them into a bag. I explained what I had just seen and she just looked at me for a while. As I turned to resume my mad dash around the kitchen she said “Honey, sit down.”

As I reluctantly sat at the kitchen table, she began to explain:

“We do not know what barn swallows eat.”

“Anything is better than nothing,” I replied.

“If you feed Baby Bird, his parents will no longer feed him,” she said.

“They are not feeding him anyway,” I responded.

She looked me dead in the eye: “They will. You have nothing to fear. And you will do far more harm by trying to help than not.” My insides were screaming, a silent scream like Baby Bird’s I wanted to help desperately; a part of me needed to. But she was my mother, and so I abandoned my instincts, and tried to silence the silent scream.

But I did not. That night I lay in bed, sleepless and terrorized with worry for Baby Bird, terrorized each time I closed my eyes just to see the pitiful, struggling image of him on the other side of my eyelids. Try as I might, I could not make the image that was burned so deeply into my mind disappear. I could not forget Baby Bird. That night was torturously long.

When morning finally came, I knew I could not live another moment without checking on Baby Bird, so I dressed quickly and ran down the stairs, grabbed the paddles, ran to the waterfront, and flung my canoe overboard. I heard my mother calling me from the kitchen window, something about breakfast, but I was not to be stopped. I clambered into my canoe and set off.

As I approached the nest, I thought I saw something small and pink partially hanging over the side. I drew closer and stood to take a closer look. Time froze and I stood there for what seemed like forever. I felt every bit of my ignorance slipping away. My fleeting and blissful innocence was falling away like a rock to the bottom of a bottomless well. Life was now cruel. Life was now unkind and unfair.

Baby Bird had died. His tiny, naked body was draped over the side of the mud nest, his beak still open. Not trapped in an eternal plea for help, but instead, just slightly as if to let out life’s last defeated sigh.

I wanted to die, to face death myself. I wanted to face the ultimate failure as I had failed so badly in not answering Baby Bird’s cry. I was now stuck in a silent scream of my own, a silent plea begging for help, to be able to take it back. Begging for another chance to make it right, begging with my now broken heart and soul.

But nothing answered my silent scream. I could not make it better. I could no longer help Baby Bird. That chance had slipped through my fingers like smoke. That chance was dead like Baby Bird.

I am still caught in my silent scream, still pleading for help. I want forgiveness. I want release. I am so full of remorse. My heart is caught in an ever tightening vise of personal torture, inescapable regret looming over me like a dark storm cloud thundering down upon me. When I close my eyes, the image of Baby Bird is there, always there, begging and pleading, screaming silently. I can hear it still, my ears forever ringing with his desperate pleading.

I have visions of my own death, still caught in my eternally unanswered and unheard primal cry. I pass through the veil and Baby Bird is there, strong, beautiful, and sleek feathered. I beg him for forgiveness, for absolution.

Baby Bird, sweet, sweet Baby Bird, know that I am sorry, so very sorry. I would give anything for your forgiveness. Please, please forgive me. But know that you changed my life, for the better. You taught me a great lesson, that inaction is inexcusable. That if I can help, I should. And for that I thank you.

I am grateful for the day I met Baby Bird and for how it changed me. Because of my experiences that day, a day that will remain with me forever, I am always looking for another Baby Bird. I am driven and on the lookout for creatures that need assistance, and I offer it. I now do anything I can to help, to make a difference. Even though the memory of Baby Bird is painful, it is also motivating. My inaction has now become action, my failure has spawned success. I still cry for Baby Bird but the tears are bitter-sweet, sweetened by the lesson learned, and sweetened by the many memories now linked to my reminiscence of Baby Bird: memories in which I did make a difference, memories in which I helped, memories that I am proud of.