Hey, It's Thomas.

I have a story to tell:

I woke up this morning to the sounds of my brothers. This is not unusual. But this morning it was different. They were more hustled, more excitable. I could hear my mom's voice drifting down the hall, "Don't kill any birds, they don't hurt anyone. Leave them alone." They don't hurt anyone. And it's true. They fly about singing, pecking the ground for remnants of bird feed we throw out at times. We even have a bird bath for their pure aquatic pleasure. Don't kill them. Hmpph, I couldn't imagine my brothers not killing poor animals. I seem to be the bleeding heart in all of these matters. I've never killed anything more than a pesky bug, and even then I grimace. My brother's love to taunt me with "bunny hugger", or the more infamous "tree hugger" when I go on my rants about the importance of recycling and the ill effects of carbon monoxide on the o-zone layer. They mostly care less. They care more about baseball and video games. I have always been more abstract. Maybe it is because I am older, maybe it is because I am smarter, maybe I am just weird. But regardless I drifted back off to sleep, thinking about birds and their harmlessness. I eventually pulled myself out of bed, mainly because of the nagging of my mother. She was leaving for work and was telling me the laudry list of things i needed to accomplish before the day was out. I apparently am her housekeeper, babysitter, and personal assistant, among other things. I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. My grandmother lives with us (or maybe we live with her, I'm never quite sure, because everyone helps pay for everything) and she was doing her morning workout. Yes, my 70 year old grandmother is, among other things, a health freak. She cooks our meals to her healthy standards, and always teaches us on the latest health breakthroughs she has read about. I ignore the swooshing of her stationery bike. I take care of business. I no longer heard my brothers, they must be outside. That is the only time they are not yelling at each other, or at least the only time they cannot be heard yelling at each other. I ate a bowl of Rice Krispy cereal. It was delicious, but hidden in the pantry. The good stuff is always hidden. As I was putting away my bowl into the sink, I hear my younger brother, Beau, burst through the front door, yelling "We got one! We got one!" He has always been the vivacious one. And by vivacious I also imply boisterous, and perhaps a bit impish, as well. Out of habit I ask what, although I was quite certain it was some small, furry wood mammal that had just seen the light. A squirrel, perhaps a rabbit, both could be found in the small wooded area in our backyard. But I soon found out it was a bird. The same type of animal that my mother at some point in the morning had sad not to kill. They never do listen. I ignored his request to come and see it. No sir, I had no interest in admiring the avian carcass. He disappeared. But not outside. I heard my grandma telling him to wash his hands. I logged onto the computer and paid no more attention to the world around me. I heard people come and go. But Facebook was currently more engrossing. Engrossing enough to make time fly by without my notice. My phone rang. It was 12:30 something. It was my aunt (oh, she also lives with us, we are something of a community).

"Come to the front door, I want you to see this."

I dragged myself to the foyer and looked through the window on our door. Sitting on the first step was a dead bird, ants had started to crawl over the bird. It was black and gray. My aunt was standing on the walkway a few feet a way, completely still, phone to her ear. But that wasn't what she wanted me to see. Next to the bird, there was another bird. The same species, perhaps slightly smaller. It was frantically fluttering around the dead bird, it would land, circle it, and then stand still. It stood there, staring at its friend. It didn't care that a human was a few feet away. It didn't care that I had opened the door. It cared about its friend. Its dead friend. My brothers surfaced, hoping for food. What they found instead was the aftermath of a murder. I told them that. They didn't seem phased. They weren't interested. But I was.

I'm not sure if birds are like humans in that they have relationships. I don't know if this particular bird was of the type that mated for life. If they traveled in flocks. If they understand death, I mean truly understand. But the look of the bird fretting over its partner. The look in its eye told me it did. Its friend, mate, sibling was dead. No longer to hang out in the limb near the roof. No more visits to the nearby bird bath. No more early morning sing-offs. It was dead. And it was sad. But not nearly sad. Sad is sitting on a couch and crying. This was grief. Grief that hurts and makes you lose your mind, not caring what will happen to you, only that some part of you has disappeared, vanished, but is still visible, still there, yet not. I can't imagine that kind of grief. I've never had that sort of loss. But if a bird feels it, then it must be necessary. It must be an innate sense within us, as natural as hunger and thirst. Khalil Gibran said, "Your joy is your sorrow unmasked." (check the entire poem out at http://www.katsandogz.com/onjoy.html it is beautiful) I believe that with all I have. One feeling can only be the other. Aren't they the same? Isn't the bird grieved for the same reason it was once joyful? Aren't we sorrowed by the very things that bring us happiness when reversed? Watching the bird gave me grief, but nowhere as close as the grief it felt.

Cody, the other brother, eventually felt some remorse and buried the bird in the back yard. I watched as its companion flew from tree to tree, following its friend. It perched on a tree near to the grave. Immobile, it watched. I walked off, but continued to watch the bird. It sat, and didn't move. Now it was sad. Would that eventually go away? I don't know the answer and I don't know how long the bird stayed in the tree, but I do know that the small bird taught me more about the nature of human emotions than any human could. We always understand when we see ourselves reflected in something as untainted as a bird.