The big, white bird

This story is about a boy and his pet. And don't think I'm talking about a boy who lives on a farm and befriends a small lion cub. No, this story is much more intriguing. And it starts at a hospital. It was the winter of 1918. The great pandemic named the Spanish flu just spread all across the world, killing millions of people. At that time, I was working as a local nurse in America, Washington DC, to be exact. I have seen many people come and go in that time, but no one drew my attention as much as the young boy named William who arrived in June 1918. I remember every aspect of him. From his short, crisp blonde hair to his sparkling blue eyes and his bright, white smile. When William arrived, he was dressed in a light blue suit completed with fancy black shoes, a wrinkled white shirt and a neon blue tie. “We had just come from a gala,” His mother spoke in a cheery tone, but still there was a slight indication of worry in her voice William's father had suspected he had caught the Spanish flu from one of his classmates, but his mother was skeptical. “If he were to have the flue he sure wouldn't have gone to the gala, would he?” But after we had run some tests, it seemed that young William did have the flu. And a tough case of it, not to mention. His mother was devastated, and so was his father. They wanted to take him home and heal him with home made remedies and traditional healing plants they planted in their garden. But the doctor refused. “This boy will not heal without the proper medication,” He said each time William’s parents wanted to take him with them. And that's how I got to learn more about young William. For instance, he had the most fabulous imagination. All the nurses who knew him teased that he was sure to become an author in the future. He would always make up the most magnificent stories during tea time and tell them afterwards to the nurses who checked his medication in the night. “Miss Holly, can I tell you something,” Young William asked one night as I went to give him some injections. “Yes, William. What is it?” I remember him looking at the other patients next to him, and smiling. “There was a bird here last night.” I couldn't help but laugh at him and shake my head. “Yes? And what was the bird's name,” I asked him. “The bird couldn't speak, Miss Holly.” This response confused and stirred me, as young William was known for making up the most creative names for people and creatures he “saw”. He didn't tell me anymore about the bird that night, but the next morning, one of the nurses talked about it in the hallway. “Oh, poor William. One day his imagination will get him in big trouble, I tell ya.” I frowned at the nurse. “What do you mean?” “Well, when I went to check up on him, he told me ‘bout a large, white bird with silver eyes standing at his bedside last night.” I looked at the nurse, asking: “And? We're all used to his imaginative stories by now.” The nurse shook her head and responded: “No, this was different, Holly. He insisted that it wasn't a joke. Usually he would laugh after telling the story, but this time, he didn't make a sound.” I didn't think much about the strange way young William was acting. But clearly, the universe wanted me to worry about it. When it was dinner time, I went to William's bed and sat next to him. “William,” I said. “Tell me about the bird you saw.” I still recall the happy smile that grew on his face at that moment. He seemed so happy, I was afraid he was going to explode into a giant spark of light and fireworks. “Oh, Miss Holly. The bird was wonderful. He had giant, white wings and he was big, Miss Holly.” After every word, his smile widened even more. “He opened his large beak and pecked at my nose. At first I was afraid he was going to rip my head off, but then…” I frowned at the little boy and scooted closer. “And then?” Young William nudged me closer as he lowered his voice into a whisper: “It healed me, Miss Holly. The bird took away all the pain.” Now, skeptics might complain and throw a fit, saying that this was just a sickly child hallucinating or throwing around snippets of a book he was secretly writing. As I walked past his bed one night, I saw a smile on his face, wider than the one he had when he told me about the large white bird. Just for experimenting, I walked over to the doctor's office and asked him to do some more tests on William. It wasn't easy convincing him, but after hours of bribing and begging, he gave in and we walked over to young William's bed. The doctor the pricked the needle in the boy's arm and sent the needle off to be inspected. A week or so later, the nurses walked along the hall towards the rooms, talking to each other and laughing as they usually did each morning. When I was about to enter one of the wards, one of the doctors walked up to me with a shocked look on his face. I swear that was the first day I ever saw Dr. Edwards smiling. “Holly, you won't believe it,” I stopped in my tracks and looked at him. “What is it?” He looked at Ward A, then his brown eyes caught you William sleeping peacefully in his bed. “He's healed” Getting healed from the Spanish flu that time had to be a miracle. In William's case, it was. No one would think that young William would get healed, seeing that his conditions worsened each day. The doctor sometimes even debated whether we should say goodbye or not. Until this day, I haven't seen young William in a hospital again. When technology started to develop and we could get information on anything anywhere anytime, I decided to search up about tall white birds that could heal people. To my shock, the results that showed up, was “Caladrius”, a Roman mythological bird that lived in the king's palace to heal the sick, then fly off towards the sun to heal itself and those with illnesses. Believe it or not, but I believe strongly that young William’s healing wasn't a miracle, but the big, white bird he so often talked about.