Bless the Baby Birds

He was pink, blind and featherless when I saw him lying in the bright spring grass. His three-inch body brought back a rush of memories, and I was eight years old again, looking down on another fragile newborn.

The bird had fallen so far from the nest that I convinced myself its mother would never miss him. With a modicum of shame, I scooped the tiny body into my cupped hands. I would nurse him back to health and become his protector. In turn, he would be my friend, my pet. He could perch on my finger, and I would teach him how to do tricks. He could sing for his supper. Surely mother would let me keep him.

She shook her head when she saw him, a bad omen; but I grew hopeful when she gave me an empty matchbox. I stuffed the box with tissue and laid the bird gently on the soft white sheets. His head wobbled back and forth as he struggled to get up. His dark swollen eyes were sealed shut; the hungry beak outstretched in a perpetual state of readiness.

Mother went for the “crumb jar;” the kind you fill with leftover toast or stale bread until there are enough pieces for meatloaf or crumbs on a casserole. We moistened a small chunk of bread in warm milk, and I dropped soggy snippets into the bird’s open mouth while mother left to prepare dinner.

My clumsy attempts at feeding lasted until the tantalizing smells from the kitchen and the clatter of dishes drew me away. It was nearly bedtime before I remembered my newfound friend.

Skipping to the back porch, I half expected birdsong in greeting. Instead, I slammed into a solid wall of silence. I couldn’t breathe as I peered into the matchbox. The bird’s too-large head lay at an odd angle against the white tissue, his pale colored beak open -- unmoving. The bread I had pushed down its throat earlier was lodged like a gummy wad of dough. I yelled for mother.

She came quickly with tweezers in hand. “He’s too weak to swallow,” she said, making one final attempt to remove the dough from the tiny gullet. “He’s not breathing.” And then seeing my tears, she added, “It’s not your fault. He’s too young, that’s all. His eyes aren’t open. He has no feathers.” In spite of her words, I cried. Sad lesson learned -- end of story, or was it?

Returning to the present and my adult moorings, I studied the baby bird at my feet. If I left him here, a neighbor’s cat or a hungry hawk would devour him. Worse yet, a bicyclist could crush him unawares.

Impulsively, I scooped the tiny bird into my hands. I would give him a second chance and perhaps redeem my childhood guilt in the process.