About things that weigh almost nothing

“Bump,” a dull thud against the window reaches my ears, followed by the faintest rustle on the terrace floor. Both my reaction—with nine months of cargo in my belly—and Ego’s—who seems deeply asleep on the ground—are equally instinctive.

We both rush to the source of the sound. I know what I might see, and I must bypass the half-year-strength-blooming German Shepherd. Otherwise, I’m almost certain that if I come second, the unlucky little bird will end up in Mister Ego’s “jaws.”

You won’t believe it. I think. First! I grab the little bird lying on the ground. Life seems to light up for three reasons:

The bird is alive!
It’s not in the jaws of a tail-wagging, circling dog.
I am not the clumsiest whale on Earth.
If I managed to outpace the dog, maybe there’s a hint of gazelle in me too! I hold the tiny bird in my hands, silently praying: just don’t close your eyes. Just stay warm…

At first, the bird is weak and, when I put it on the table, it hardly moves. Its tiny claws struggle to hold on. I understand—nature. I understand—it’s just a bird. But still. It’s alive! It feels! Knowing the sharp-toothed neighbor cats are prowling nearby, and our alert dog doesn’t leave its side, I scoop the bird up again and head home to find it shelter. I grab a cardboard shoebox, line it with a towel, and gently—gently as can be—settle in the little “patient.”

I “nurse” it all day. Placing the box where I can see it, I keep glancing at the tiny inhabitant. I pour a bit of water into the bottle cap, and over the day notice the bird pecking at it. It drinks! It might live! It might recover!

In the evening, after the kids return from school, I tell the story of our new home “resident.”
“What do we do?” They both press their noses to the cardboard box. I shrug, and the bird, sensing my concern, stirs more energetically.

Romantic Pa comes up with a plan to raise it in her room, instead of a parakeet. Practical Do gently sets his sister straight: it’s a wild bird, and its home is the forest, not her room’s captivity.

Finally, the whole family delegation moves toward the agreed plan—trying to place the bird in the birdhouse Dad built. It’s set high up, unreachable by cats or our highly curious, pecking, box-investigating Ego.

Gently, as gently as possible, we place the bird in the birdhouse. Holding our breath, eyes wide, we wait. For a moment, the tiny creature tilts its head, spreads its wings, and joyfully chirps before flying off into the forest.

We return from the “operation” carrying an empty box. The kids are buzzing with the experience of being little rescuers. And I carry in my heart the unscripted lesson we showed them:
Do not be indifferent.
Not to the pain of others.
Even if it’s tiny. Almost weightless. A bird that unexpectedly hit the window.

V.