The Bird
A Story of Betrayal
I once found a bird lying broken on the sidewalk, unable to fly. The angle of its twisted wing looked painful and unnatural. I peered down at the thing with pity, took it into my arms without caution, and it came home with me that day.
I cut bandages to fit the bird. I cradled it against my chest as I wrapped its wing with delicate precision. That first week, it wasn’t even able to eat on its own — I was the one who made sure it stayed full.
The next week was a little better. The bird could eat by itself, and it even started to hop around a little. It had learned not to claw at my furniture, and it was now used to letting me bathe it.
The third week was the last time that I saw the bird:
I removed the bandages and watched as the bird spread its wings, suspicious of whether it was ready to fly again. It stayed in my home for a few more days, testing itself until finally, it was able to hover with ease.
I opened the door on that final day, presenting the threshold of the outside world to my avian friend. As I held it open, the bird fluttered around the house a final time, saying goodbye. It went towards the doorway, and just as I thought it was going to leave, it turned around and flew towards me.
I did not flinch, for I was not afraid.
But the bird did not give me any sign of gratitude. It did not offer me butterfly kisses with its wings. Instead, the bird extended his talon-like feet.
So maybe it was wrong of me to lead you on like this. Before I had said that the third week was the last time that I saw the bird, which is very true. But rather, the third week is the last time I saw.
