Fly Away Little Bird

The diagnosis was grim. They gave me a year, maybe two. My life was already in disarray, and I couldn’t even process this news. My health became just another item on an endless to-do list. I had no idea how to cope. The past year is mostly a blur now, but one thing was clear—something was terribly wrong. It felt like the thin veil separating the physical world from the spiritual had ripped apart, leaving me stranded between realities. I couldn't tell which level of hell I was living in.

What curse had fallen upon our small family? Were the sins of the father revisiting us? My brother died unexpectedly in January. I was diagnosed in April. Not long after, my mother was hospitalized for a triple bypass.

My mother and I are still hanging on, but each day is a battle. Is this fate? Destiny? Or just bad life choices catching up with us? There’s no time to ask why, and the answer hardly seems to matter anymore. I’m often weak, struggling with the simplest tasks. Chemo fog descends like a storm, and I need to sleep—but it’s never restorative. It’s a fight for survival in a gray, underground plane of existence. Maybe that’s where my soul goes when my body can’t keep up. In that place, I’m a Viking warrior, a knight slaying dragons, fending off evil with a nobility I don’t always feel. I didn’t cause this rift in the cosmos—so what did?

To help me through, I got a kitten. I wasn’t sure I wanted her. The last thing I needed was more responsibility. But she was the last of her litter—a black kitten born on Halloween, unwanted, though I couldn’t understand why. She was the sweetest creature, bringing joy to my miserable existence. Now, nearly a year old, she’s still by my side—or more accurately, on my lap, nestled in a blanket, as I try to shake off the lingering effects of chemo. I’ve made it past the one-year mark and am working on year two, determined to defy the odds.

After my last treatment, I packed up the car and took her with me to the lake. I needed healing. The cat was a quiet companion for the long drive, adjusting well. When we arrived, I was too exhausted to unpack more than the essentials. She darted to her food mat, meowing about the missing bowls. I filled them, and soon she was purring, content.

I fell asleep quickly that night but was jolted awake by a loud thump against the living room window. Even the cat stirred, growling from the bed. Groggily, I put on my robe to investigate, half-asleep. Most people would’ve stayed inside, but something compelled me to check it out—like the clueless characters in horror movies who follow danger instead of avoiding it.

On the deck, I found what I thought was the source of the noise—a motionless bird. But something was off. It was already decomposed. Its brittle skeleton lay there, tricolored feathers still attached. The organs were gone, yet the head remained. Its eyes stared blankly at me. How could it be so decayed if it had just struck the window? I apologized to the bird, wondering if its spirit could hear me. What could I do to make things right?

I wasn’t sure how to handle it. Was it a warning? Had the bird been there long? Should I bury it? Sage the house? I decided to wait until morning to take care of it and returned inside, but the thought nagged at me. I’d heard a loud thump just minutes ago so why was the bird already long dead? The cat had heard it too. Her body language and growling revealed her unease.

She was still on the bed, growling at nothing. It felt like something had followed me inside, visible only to her. I crawled under the covers, but sleep didn’t come easily. My dreams were unsettling, and I woke up just as exhausted.

The sound was a mystery. It was exactly what you’d expect to hear if a bird had flown into the window—but the bird had clearly been dead for some time. Was it a delayed echo of something that had already happened? It reminded me of that old question: "If a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it, does it make a sound?" Maybe the bird struck the window long ago, and only now had the sound reached me.

I spent hours online trying to make sense of it. Thankfully, it wasn’t a blackbird, which the internet would call a deadly omen. From the feathers, I think it was a sparrow. No exact answers were forthcoming, but I narrowed it down to two possibilities: death was looming, or a major transformation was coming. I chose to believe the latter.

The house felt strange—random noises, loud and disorienting, with no clear source. Nothing was out of place, except for the cat’s growling and my startled reactions. I’m not saying I believe in ghosts, but I’ve learned to stay vigilant. I watch the cat. If she’s calm, I’m calm. If she’s tense and growling at air, that’s when I worry.

Are these random events connected and part of some larger, preordained pattern? I don’t know. Is the dead bird just the natural order of things or a message from another realm? Which voice do I listen to, the one on the left shoulder or the right? It’s all so confusing.

Then I heard another crash—this time in the kitchen. Pots and pans, by the sound of it. The cat was growling again, eyes fixed on the door. I hesitated but went in. Everything was in its place. I opened all the cabinets—nothing. Then I remembered the bird carcass I’d thrown in the kitchen trash the night before. I hadn’t wanted to bury it; afraid it would stay tied to the land—or to me.

I opened the windows and cleansed the house with sage. Whoever or whatever had come to visit, I was done and completely over it. My sleep had been restless, filled with otherworldly beings. My body was weak, and now it felt like something was affecting my mind, too. Eventually, the cat returned to her playful self. Despite not being at ease and ignoring other disturbances, I felt a weight lift.

It was a misty October morning, and the docks were drawn in for winter. The only sound was the haunting call of a loon echoing across the still water. The world felt quieter yet somehow haunted, suspended between past and present. Perhaps the land held a grudge against me. My house, newly built on what had once been an open garden, lacked a history I could grasp, yet it pulsed with an unsettling energy that hinted at stories untold.

I was unsettled by the bird, the noises, and the cat—especially since she was born on Halloween, nearly a year ago. But she wasn’t a threat. She was a sentinel, seeing through the thin veil between worlds. I loved her for that. We’d bonded deeply, understanding each other in ways only we could.

I may never know what kind of bird it was, only that it left brittle bones and scattered feathers behind. My best guess is that it was a sparrow, a bird often symbolizing the soul and representing divine presence in many cultures. Some Native Americans believe sparrows are the spirits of ancestors watching over their living, albeit sometimes foolish, descendants. I can only imagine how often they roll their eyes in exasperation at the chaos their progeny creates. It’s like watching a television show and shouting at the characters for their foolish choices, knowing they’ll never heed our wise advice. We convince ourselves that they somehow deserve their fate, yet we can’t help but feel a twinge of regret, recognizing that there’s nothing we can do to intervene.

I must focus on my health—body, mind, and soul. This journey has been grueling, and I don’t want to crash like that sparrow—grounded, longing to be free. I may never fully understand it, but I’m determined to dig deeper. I need to be concerned about my own life choices.

I was on a treacherous path, but I couldn’t change course until I was torn apart, forced to realize time wasn’t on my side. Life is fragile and fleeting. Whether that bird was a lost soul, an ancestor, or a message from beyond—it got my attention. But I still don’t know what to do with it.

Looking around my home, I see so many artifacts from long-dead relatives. Could these be the ancestors visiting me, warning me? I have no answers—just questions. The meaning of life and death is a mystery for me to explore—my personal journey.

Is this the end, or simply another beginning?