This Little Bird Died in My Hands

On my short break from my shitty job

May 19, 2023

It's been a strange week. Tides are turning in waves that cause my newfound confidence to sway drunkenly, tempting my Demons into joining me on this dance floor once again. Like a coy Seductress, I am still able to keep them lustful and at arms length for now.

My thoughts drift between various ambitions and the inevitable consequences of pursuing anything appealing. In moments I'll hear myself squawk "I'm dying", and in rapid response, Old Familiar will sneer back "we all are, it's only a matter of time". I nod with assurance, knowing it changes nothing.

So, at this job I currently loath for all the things it does to pit my fears of weakness against the many random troubles of strangers, I find myself consistently adding their immediate need for resolution to my consistent sense of insignificance. How dare I even think of having my own ambitions when there is such immediate pain in this world? So many in need of comfort or relief that any sense of my own dreams or desires pale and seem cruel somehow. Particularly when my ambitions require some of these others - and a multitude of even more strangers - to support my "pie in the sky bullshit".

Yesterday I comforted a Christian woman whose mother had died the week before. She had called about a completely different issue, but after helping her, she stayed on the phone with me for about another five minutes or so, telling me the things she was going through. At one point she apologized and said "You may not believe this but I don't have any friends, and you sound so kind, I just..." and she caught herself again, switching rapidly through one or two subjects - her daughter, her Faith, the conflicting feelings of sadness mingled with relief because her mother's mind had gone long before the body surrendered, and that alone was a bittersweet pain that had also now come to an end.

As with any person who mentions their Faith, whatever it may be, I always try to assure them that they are correct to hold onto it, to allow whatever comforts it may bring. This time, I'm not sure what compelled me to say it other than I somehow understood the words may comfort her, but after encouraging her to maintain her Faith, and acknowledging it really was not my place to speak to her as I was, I took a moment to address that feeling of guilt she expressed towards being somewhat relieved at her mother's passing. It was strange how the words came to me, as if these were things I knew to be true without question. As if I said things like this all the time. But I reminded her that her feelings were a very natural thing for humans to have, especially when their loved one no longer recognizes them. It was why we have the word "mercy".

She was right to remember the better days, trusting that her mother had finally moved to a better place - whole again, as she herself had put it - and with this trust, she should forgive herself for feeling this guilt. Be merciful unto herself, so to speak, as well as be grateful for the mercy of her mother's passing.

When that conversation ended, I exhaled as if I had been submerged, the sense of the world surrounding me returning to my consciousness.

The following day, I was on my first break and already seeking relief from some minor work induced distress. The day was cool with a light breeze, and as I walked down the main row of shops and restaurants, to my left, I noticed a line of food trucks and an event coming together at the outside amphitheater across the way. It seemed to explain why there were more people around and things happening in general.

As I focused forward, I passively noted the amount of small birds on the sidewalk - considerably more than I usually see concentrated in this area. As I was taking in other observations and dimly thinking that there must be more crumbles of food scattered around than usual, I happened to notice this sleek black bird, smaller than a crow, with a fine sheen on his feathers, hopping in and out of this doorway in a sort of half circle pattern, back and forth. Had he the same speckled pattern and smaller size of the many feathered kindred surrounding him, I might have missed his behavior; but larger than the others as he was, and with that fine glossy sheen from his impeccable black feathers, in the few extra seconds I was drawn to him, I noticed he was not circling for food. He was not looking to feed. He was examining something, and this attention was prompting him to flit back and forth in this semi circle pattern.

Instinctively curious, my eyes flitted in the direction of the black bird's concern, not understanding what it was at first. From the few feet away that I was, it seemed perhaps a discarded wad of paper or trash - perhaps it contained something the bird wanted?

Oh no. Nothing so simplistic and obvious. As I drew closer, and stepped past, I was riveted by the sight of one of these speckled birds, laying just to the left of the landing of a storefront doorway. It was on its back, little legs up, talons curled slightly in, and as my eyes remained locked on this wounded curiosity, it seemed to be moving weakly. Its eyelids were nearly closed, and the head lolled to the right, but as it breathed in what would be a deep breath for such a small bird, his head turned to the center, only to drift right again on the exhale.

The breathing more than anything was my clue that something was seriously wrong with this little creature. It slowed my step. And though I had already walked past it, I was so transfixed by its predicament that I came back and crouched closer still, squatting down to observe and determine what, if anything, I should do.

The sleek black bird didn't seem to like my presence. I had a sense that he wanted to drive me away but knew it would be futile. I think he understood his little speckled friend was injured, but beyond that, who knew what capacity for understanding this sleek black bird had? I felt he genuinely cared about his speckled friend, obviously seriously injured, and now with this big human looming over him as well. It was a real problem, and he hopped in a wider semi circle to keep an eye on us.

This wounded bird was not recovering. His little speckled chest rose and fell slightly as his head came center on the inhale and drifted to the right on the exhale, his little beak emphasizing the movement like a slow paced metronome.

Aside from that, he wasn't moving, and his eyelids seemed to be slowly closing. As the sleek black bird and I looked on, it became increasingly clear to me that this poor little bird was dying. He was dying and I was to be his witness.

As I stayed observing and being observed - not so much, if at all, by human passerby, but keenly and closely by at least one, if not several, feathered friends - I noticed from the feather pattern and his still weak breathing that his chest seemed impacted somehow. I started to think that maybe he flew into the glass door too swiftly. Very common, to be sure, but just as commonly, most birds survive such an impact. This one's breathing seemed to be labored, slow and growing slower.

I couldn't resist. Reaching out with a finger, I stroked the speckled chest as it rose, the head turning center towards me. In this moment, I had the slightest sensation of movement, as if somewhere within, this little creature's survival instinct was reacting to the contact. The chest rose and fell two more times, but the body didn't move. The sleek black bird continued his fretting.

As I was sensing these few surrounding birds observing me with their friend, I also became aware that somehow this little bird had been lucky that no other human or animal had come along to cause more injury. Indeed, no other human seemed to have any interest in me, or this bird. I suddenly started to become self-conscious, as if we should clear the area before some strange human came along to interfere with the passing of this poor little Soul. It seemed a shame he should die on this cold black granite - or whatever this entranceway was made of - and I moved to scoop him up as gently, delicately as I could with both my hands.

So fragile. So frail. So weightless and ephemeral, it was hard to imagine this could have been anything more than a little bundle of soft feathers. Unlike anything our clumsy human hands could create despite all our ambitions to the contrary. The wings briefly spread open and closed again as I scooped his feeble little body into my cupped hands. Vaguely, I was aware of that sleek black bird hopping twice to one side as I dared to scoop his friend from the ground.

And then, in this moment as my hands came together underneath his fragile little speckled body, and I positioned him comfortably (I hoped) in my cupped hands, I swear I felt his body move one last time, as if somehow aware of being picked up, instinctively attempting to resist, and yet too feeble and frail to do anything more than breathe its last breath. As I was moving to stand and stayed watching this little speckled creature in my hands, it seemed as if his head lolled two more times before coming to rest against my ring finger.

I wasn't certain he was dead yet, but I was suddenly very aware that I was standing right at the doorway of a store with a bird in my hands, a sleek black bird bouncing nearby, and a few dozen more speckled birds milling about in close proximity. Oddly enough, for all the bustle of people and activity across the street, almost nobody was nearby.

Moving in that direction, closer to the amphitheater, I decided that I would lay the little guy down under a tree and give him space to recover, if that was even possible. The first tree I approached had a nice bare patch like a pocket next to a thick patch of grass. It looked like a comfortable resting place. It took a few moments of me standing there, staring at his speckled body, deciding that any movement I was seeing was either wind or my own hands before I decided he had truly died.

I stooped down and lay his little body in that pocket of dirt under the tree next to the grass. I stayed there for a few minutes, taking in the emotion of recognizing that this little creature breathed his last in my hands, and it was to be my hands that determined this resting place. Somehow I felt a responsibility had been placed upon me and I was going to answer.

It never occurred to me to ask why. But it was important to me that this little speckled bird, who clearly was a kind enough creature to have at least one Friend, was shown some decency and respect in his final moments, even if he may have brought those final moments on himself by flying too fast into a glass door.

Who knows what actually brought about his demise? I never truly will. His friends wouldn’t say and they didn't bother to follow me across the street anyway. They're birds. If they even had the memory or attention span to remember why they would want to do so, they wouldn't have to follow me too closely be able to watch me. So there’s not much point wondering why.

I just know that I was there when a wounded creature was passing, and I did what I could to comfort the little guy, assuring him that he was not alone when he breathed his last.

Then I had to go back to my fucking job.

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