The Bird Who Wanted to Fly

by MrMagica

I don't remember when I first saw the bird. It was sometime in my youth. It seemed like it was always there, hopping in its cage, chirping it's sweet songs.

I don't remember how it grew to adulthood as I did. Of course when you are young, everything seems big and grow smaller as you grow.

Now that I think of it, it was a pretty bird, a canary, I guess. And it was always there in it's cage in the living room of the old house where I grew up. Mother and Father would feed it, give it water. Of course, I should have done the same, but children easily forget their duties and leave responsibility elsewhere.

So I grew up and always saw the bird. As I recall, the bird (call him Canary) became a part of the old house, something to look at, though it's song became less and less.

Understandable. Old birds sing and hop about less.

Eventually I moved away from that old house to start my own life, but I would always come to visit. And each time I did, the bird would be there, sitting on its perch and watching over the activity of the family.

Then one day I stopped in front of the cage and saw its unblinking eyes, black and staring. It made no movement so I thought it was dead. But I observed its breast timed to the rhythm of it's tiny heart.

It made me wonder.

So many years had passed and the bird was still alive?

So I asked a question from my mind: “How long have you been in your cage?”

“Many, many years,” it replied.

I was shocked that it answered me. Birds don't talk.

“What is your fondest desire?” I blurted out, not thinking.

“I would like most to fly,” it said.

“When was the last time you had the chance to fly?”

“Many, many years ago.”

I was shocked. So many years had passed and the bird had never been allowed out of its cage. Perhaps there was a reason for this. I looked deeper into the cage and saw its droppings, the musty odor of decay and mold upon the newspaper lining of the cage. Obviously, Canary's cage had not been cleaned for years.

So I took pity and opened the door of the cage and thrust my finger in. “Come, my friend,” I said. “You must fly at least once.”

He accepted my invitation and hopped aboard my finger and ruffled his feathers as I carefully withdrew it from the cage.

There was something about this bird that I found strange beside its apparent age. It seemed too introspective. It gratefully accepted temporary freedom with reserve and caution.

So I took it to the old Victorian sofa, sat down and studied it a moment longer before speaking. “Now is your chance to fly.”

He only ruffled his feathers but made no move to take flight. “I am at peace,” he said. “Flight will come. There is time.”

Perhaps, I thought, it was the cat on the fireplace mantel that gave it some fear to fulfill it's wish, or perhaps it's wing were atrophied from long disuse. I did not question this remark.

“You must have seen much in this old house,” I remarked, looking about at the worn furniture and sniffed the slight musty odor of the place. It was but a vain attempt to say something while I thought of a reason for this situation.

“Indeed I have,” it said and began to tell me the tales of human life that had passed before his cage, such tales as I had long forgotten. Whether it was hours or minutes that I sat upon the couch, I cannot tell, but the stories he told me awoke ancient memories, fond desires and neglect.

“You must be very old.”

“Yes,” he said. “I am old.”

“You do not look it.”

“I have been in a cage many years.”

“You must be hungry, thirsty.”

“Yes, but I have learned to live with that.”

“When was the last time you were fed and given water?”

“Many, many years.”

“Impossible!” I cried. “I have known you for so many years. Have you not had any food or seed for that long?”

“No. I have been forgotten.”

I looked at Canary and saw that he was not malnourished. He seemed strong, but it seemed ridiculous that he had been ignored, left unfed for so long a time. Did Mother forget to feed him?

“It was not her duty,” Canary replied as if reading my mind.

So he continued his tales and refreshed my mind.

Ah!!

The memories I had so long forgotten! Yet this wise bird had not. It was difficult for me to suppress the tears, not just for the neglect this bird had received but also the dreams I had as a young lad when the world was an exciting place, open to explore.

My mother returned and I was determined to ask her why she had neglected to feed Canary. But the look she gave me as she entered choked my words before I could ask them. I saw resignation in her eyes. She silently withdrew to the kitchen with her groceries.

“Stay here,” I sad, laying Canary down on a pillow. “I won't be long.” I got up and followed mother into the kitchen.

“How long has it been since you fed Canary?” I accused, irate at this ignorance.

She shrugged. “I don't remember. I guess I forgot.”

She seemed more haggard as the seconds passed. “Come,” she said as she finished emptying one of the bags. “I will show you something.”

She led me to a small room, unused for may years and devoid of furniture. A single window looked out at a great expanse of lawn and forest. From where I stood I began longing for that great space as if it called me to Paradise. The sunlight poured through that window, brightened the room considerably.

This room was where Canary hatched, she told me. Where he first spread his wings and flew about the room, perched on the furniture, chirped merrily. It wasn't long before he was placed in a cage and moved to the living room where family, relatives and guests could see and hear him. He was fed for a time, then somehow she had neglected to feed him. He was simply there, just watching. She had not thought to investigate why he was still alive. Duties had taken over what little time she had left.

I made few comments. I thought that I should take Canary with me and nurture it myself if mother would not.

After her tale was finished, I returned to the old living quarters to apologize for this affront. But Canary was lying on his side, frail and breathing heavily. He was old, his feathers ragged and pale white with age.

“Canary!” I cried as I lifted him up in my hand. “What happened?”

“All I ever wanted was to fly,” he croaked.

I stared, failing to understand. He never had the chance to fly, even when I removed him from his cage. Why didn't he?

I watched, horrified as the beating of his little heart fluttered and lay still.

And then it dawned upon me. I saw why he had lived for so long. Hope beat in his heart, hope had sustained him, as vain as it was. Food and drink meant nothing. Only the chance to fly was his fondest desire and he did not permit himself to do it. I knew what I had to do.

I took him outside and planted his frail legs on a branch of an old tree just outside of the little room in which he was born. And as I did so I saw the other birds, millions of them perched on the branches of the trees in the forest, so thick that I could not see the leaves. And they were all dead!

Canary showed me a lesson and I am a better man for it. He was just one of many other birds left neglected and all they ever wanted to do was fly!

End