Tuesday, September 16, 2014

            I was waiting for the bus when I saw the dead bird.  Telling my little brother to stand back, I moved closer to check it out.
            "Why can't I see?  You never let me do anything!"  Chris said.
            "Shhh!  Just a minute!"  I had to make sure it was suitable for eight-year old eyes.
            The bird was crusted with blood, its insides hanging out, eyeballs eaten, totally gross.  But what struck me were the wings, stretched out and untouched by insects or animals, just there, as if the bird might flap its wings and still fly.  It was dead, sure, but something about those outstretched wings gave me an odd feeling of hope inside.  I think because the dead bird reminded me of my family.  We were dying, being eaten from the inside out, but my wings were still outstretched and I believed I could fly.

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