Baby Bird- A Short Story
The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, spilling shades of orange, pink, and a soft dash of yellow across the sky. The air was thick with the scent of rain, still clinging to the leaves after the midnight storm. My oldest brother, Mateo, led the way out of the house, his movements purposeful and sure. The rest of us—my sister, Feline, my brother, Rameses, and I—trailed behind him like three little ducklings, rubbing the sleep from our five-year-old eyes, wobbling with a mix of exhaustion and curiosity.
“What are we doing up so early?” I wondered aloud, but Mateo only grinned, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
“You guys are gonna love this,” he kept repeating, his voice a mix of mystery and assurance.
The grass was wet and cool beneath our bare feet, each step a ticklish reminder of the storm that had passed. At first, all I could hear was the chorus of crickets filling the morning air, their steady hum a familiar lullaby of the South. But then, a new sound emerged—a high-pitched chorus of tiny chirps coming from beneath a large oak tree in the backyard.
I leaned closer, drawn by the sound. There, under the sprawling branches, was a fallen nest cradling a clutch of hatching birds, their tiny beaks stretching towards the sky, their voices insistent and fragile.
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Back in Boston, our apartment didn’t have a backyard; we lived in a small space close to my mom’s new job. The constant city noise had replaced the sounds I once knew—the crickets, the birds, the distant lowing of cows. When Mom told us we were visiting family in Macon, I didn’t realize how much I missed the symphony of the South until it surrounded me once again.
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“Where’s their mother?” I asked Mateo, my voice tinged with concern.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. The nest must have fallen during the storm, and it was their chirping that woke me up.”
As the sun climbed higher, casting a golden hue over everything, we decided to protect the baby birds until their mother returned. Our tiny hands scrambled to gather sticks and leaves, building a makeshift barrier around the fragile nest. Rameses, ever the practical one, began digging for worms, just in case the mother bird forgot. His logic made perfect sense to our young minds.
The kitchen window overlooking the backyard swung open, and Mom’s voice floated out, calling us in for breakfast. The scent of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and buttery grits wafted through the air, pulling us momentarily from our mission. Even now, I can still smell that breakfast, a memory so vivid it almost brings tears to my eyes. These days, Mom’s job keeps her away from the kitchen and out of the house. But even when she wasn’t home, her love lingered like the scent of that meal. I felt it in the bags under her eyes, in the tired yet loving smile she wore each morning as she brewed coffee and toasted bagels before heading out.
“Mother’s don’t get sick days,” she would say, her voice a mix of weary strength and unyielding warmth.
We ate quickly, eager to return to the nest. When we rushed back outside, the sun was higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the grass. And there, to our immense relief, was the mother bird, perched on the edge of the nest, her eyes watchful and alert. She had returned, just as we’d hoped, and our hearts swelled with a triumphant joy.
We stood there, the four of us side by side, feeling the wet grass beneath our feet and the warmth of the morning sun on our skin. A sense of peace settled over me, unlike anything I had felt before. As I watched the mother bird gently tend to her newly hatched chicks, a wave of understanding washed over me. Even though I was just a child, I could feel the significance of that moment. The mother bird had come back to her babies, just as my mom always found her way back to us. Despite her long hours at work, she was always there in the ways that mattered most.
A mother’s love is a quiet, constant presence. It’s in the little things—the warmth of her smile, the way she tucks you in at night, the smell of breakfast that lingers in the kitchen, and the hurried goodbye kisses before she rushes off to work. It’s in her sacrifices, the bags under her eyes, and the tired yet unwavering commitment to keep us safe and cared for. Standing there, watching the mother bird nurture her young, I understood something important: love is often silent and unseen, but it’s always there, carrying us through storms and sheltering us in its wings, much like that mother bird did for her fragile chicks.
At that moment, I felt a profound connection to the world around me—a world where mothers of all kinds care for their children, day after day, no matter how tired they are or how much they have to give up. I knew that just as this mother bird would teach her babies to fly, my mom was teaching us to soar in our own way. And I promised myself that I would never forget the strength of that love, even if it wasn’t always visible, even if it was sometimes as subtle as the first light of dawn breaking across the sky.
