Melancholy Christmas

    Woken up by the sun early Friday morning. The snow is gently falling outside creating a thin layer of powdered sugar along the sidewalks. You get up, stretch and begin your day. You tiredly get up to get a cup of coffee and check the mail for any gifts or cards for Christmas Day.

    You grab your hot cup of joe and head out to the porch to check your mailbox in the blustering cold holding your robe tight to your ribs. Before you can even get fully through your door you realize a box with holes in it on either side sitting right on your doormat. You put it inside worrying that it’s something important, maybe even something alive. To your surprise after gently opening the box, a little baby bird is sitting there, possibly injured and chirping weakly on it’s crushed carpet of old weeds and dried leaves. You quickly pull out your phone and hastily search for how to feed and care for a baby chick. Tapping an article that seems to repeat what you’re looking for …“What do you feed a newborn bird?.“ While reading the article, you multitask by examining the poor little thing, desperately searching for a way to nourish it. 

    You’ve never been much of an animal lover, but the small bird’s appearance was so sudden that it kick started your instincts to help out something in need.     “Wet dog food, liver, boiled eggs…” 

    It listed many things but none of them were an option. You don’t have a dog, you don’t have any liver, and it’s too little and too injured for you to boil an egg in an amount of time that convinces you it will stay alive during cooking. So the best idea you could think of was to give it droplets of water. As you are slowly placing drops into its tiny delicate beak, you pick your phone back up to continue your search on  how to help an injured baby bird. While examining the poor thing again, you end up finding out that it was not just hurt, but pretty torn up. Its paper-thin skin under it’s right wing was bloody and torn. You grimace at the sight. It was almost as if you felt the pain under your arm, as if the bird was attached to you somehow. This newfound sympathy made you want to  care for it even more, made you want to give it a name. But no, you thought, don’t give it a name, you can't get attached to it. Who even knows if this thing will survive? You brush your thoughts away and tap on the most reliable looking article you could find. 

    “....Wrap it’s wing with a comfortable bandage back into its original shape..”

    You shove your phone into your pocket and make your way upstairs searching the small medicine cabinet in the bathroom. You finally pull out a roll of ace bandages and run it back downstairs crossing your fingers the bird will be fine. 

    After cutting it down to size, you timidly and ever so gently fold it’s broken wing inward so it’s back in its original position. The little thing screeches as you try to help. Afterward, despite your own self admonishing, you find yourself looking forward to tomorrow with your wrinkly little friend. Hoping he’s as strong as the pull that brought him to your front door.

                ——————————

    Several days later, Dawn is not so new anymore. Nor is he as fragile. His feathers have begun to grow  in, brown and white, with small hints of black hiding underneath.  You acquired the things he needs to live. Everyday. You tend to him, every night. Breakfast and dinner spent with this little guy. You no longer hold yourself back from becoming attached. You have him a name, spend money on him, and play with him as if he were your child. 

    Days pass, and as Dawn grows he begins to become sad. You feel guilty and confused. You nurtured him, and even helped him learn to fly. What could I have done that has been so wrong? You think. You can tell when Dawn is down when he doesn’t eat all of his dinner, and refuses to play. He just goes to sit on the window seal and watch time pass. Every time this happens it breaks your soft heart. You search and you search for an answer that can help. He’s not sick, he’s not injured anymore… what could it be?

    This time as Dawn lays there watching through the window and you come and sit there with him. You try to follow where his tiny bead like eyes are looking. You follow his gaze and realize he’s looking at the birds that look almost identical to him singing in the naked tree across the street. It was a pure sight to see, but something was lost inside of you when you’ve come to the conclusion that the bird you’ve raised and cared for since the day he didn't even have feathers was missing someone that wasn’t you. He misses the comfort of his spiky nest, and the warmth under his mother’s belly. He misses his family. 

    No, my little guy loves me, right? I was the one who raised him, I was the one who fixed him. I was the one who saved him from the chilling cold snow. I saved him from everything! Reassuring thoughts race through your head as you stare at Dawn. You feel your throat start to feel clogged and choked. And your eyes tingle with persistent tears trying to push their way through your eyes. 

    Finally, you swallow your pride, and give Dawn one last stroke of love across his soft feathers before you let him go. You feed him one last time, and play with him before you head out with him in your arms. 

    You walk outside, on the chilly porch and take a deep breath in hopes that the crisp air will clear your mind. You cross the street on to the small field of trees in front of your home. Before you can even step completely on the sidewalk, Dawn leaps out of your gentle grip and confidently flies back into the nest of his own kind. Your heart breaks but you still feel warm inside. A melancholy feeling fills your body. It’s the oddest and most confusing feeling you’ve ever felt before. You hear the happiest songs and chirps come from Dawn and the family he once knew. And suddenly, your Dawn isn’t yours anymore. But, he was the best Christmas gift you could ask for.