The bird is eating approximately the same amount every day. This was fine when it was just brought in, bleary in a tissue box, but now it's starting to worry me. Well, worry is a strong word. I take note. Jamie would be worried. Little girls are easily attached to little birds. When I was her age and found a dying baby bird under a hedge, I picked it up and put it in the woods to see if a wild animal would come eat it.
A part of me wants this little robin to die, just so Jamie and I can have a "teachable moment." It seems a horrible thing to admit. But both my parents are likely to pass on within the next year, and how could a four-year-old understand? How could I even hope to do the job I'll need to do? I've been waiting for the question, "Daddy, will you die?"
"Not for a long time" is what a magazine article counseled me to say.
That isn't really what I want to say, though. I vacillate between the truth in my heart, which is "No, I'll always be with you" and "Yes," flat-out Yes, which is also the truth. Is it selfish of me to feel unable to dilute the truth? What is it that makes me want to raise my hatred of equivocation over the needs of a preschool girl?
Selfishness lingers. Sometimes I feel I don't have the strength to slay it, or the nobility to transcend it. Sometimes I only hover beside it, and watch it breathe.
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