The Bird

The wind flutters its still feathers. I observe its chest rising and falling like the ocean waves in a storm. Black eyes like a starless night. Tulip orange beak, opening and closing as if gasping for air.
"its okay buddy- its alright you'll be okay," I whisper to the bird. Its head tilts towards me, as if it understands my words. Maybe it knows I am lying. As if on an impulse, my hand stretches out and reaches towards the bird's tiny head, resting against some newspaper. It flinches, but does not panic as I run my hand gently over its head. My eyes catch on something; a black mark across its chest. The bird's injury is worse than I thought. It may not even make it to the house.
"Stay with me," I mumble, hands tightening on the cardboard box. My jog speeds up, but I am carful to hold the bird still. I don't know why I feel a sudden attachment to this bird that happened to cross my path. Maybe its vulnerableness reminds me of my son. But unlike my son, this bird will not die. My house comes into view, and I sprint the last way. The bird's breath is wheezing now, chest working harder and harder to get the breath it needs. I place it down on the kitchen bench, already racing to get a bandage and a dropper. I place down my equipment and get to work, delicately picking up the bird's tiny figure. It barely even moves. I finish with the bandage, and begin to drip water into the birds mouth. Something cool slips down my cheek. I freeze. Maybe my tears know something I do not. I drop the makeshift feeder and slide to the floor, bird held in my grip as a mother would hold a baby. The bird stares at me with those eyes, and takes its final breaths. And I cry. I cry not only for this bird, this bird who did nothing to deserve this, but also for my son. Because I couldn't save him.