Recently I was reminded of the time I thought I could save a baby bird. I was about eight years old and walking home from school one day I saw a little feathered blackbird lying on the ground. It was floundering around like it just didn't know how to fly yet. I didn't see a nest, so I decided to scoop it up and bring it home.
I remember passing my dad on the way into our house. He was working in the yard. I snuck the little bird past him and ran into my room. I talked to the little birdie for a bit and it looked at me like "please don't eat me." Realizing I'd need a box, I set the little bird in the middle of my bed. I thought it would be cozy there and I ran out to the garage to find a shoe box. Upon my return I was horrified to find that sweet little bird lying on the floor as still as death itself. My heart sank and I cried.
If I only would have put it somewhere lower. My desk drawer would have been better than what I did. It just broke my heart and made me feel so guilty. I finally told my dad and we had a little burial with shoe box in the yard.
