I remember once I saw a little sparrow hit with a twig when i was raining hard, sitting in a tiny tree by our tinier aparment. I was only seven or eight. We lived in North Carolina. But the sparrow was hit, and I watched it flutter to the ground and flail there until finally my mother came in and yelled at me because it was too early to be up staring at the rain and what did I think I was doing with the hall light on too? Wait, that may be your fathernevermindjustgobacktobed. She shut my blinds and left me all alone to worry and worry and worry about that sparrow. The next afternoon, though, I had forgotten about the bird and was on my merry way home when I saw it again, peeping helplessly and shrilly on the hood of a car. Who put it there? I mean, who would put a hurt bird on a car hood? Or maybe it flew...and then got too tired, or too painful. But the point was it was there, and so was I, so I helped it. I covered the inside of a shoebox with soft fluffy fabric that I found in my mom's room (and probably should have kept my hands off of in the first place), but every time my eight year old conscience tried to get in the way all I could see was that little wing bent at an odd angle and hear that shrill peeping. My reasoning was that the bird needed the fluff more than mommy did, I guess. But I called the nearest petstore, standing on a stool to reach the counter phone, and dialed from the Yellow Pages (I was so proud I could use them) and asked them what do little birds eat? And they said boil an egg and feed him with something small. By the way, nobody was home yet. So I carried the big pot and boiled my egg and then I cracked it but it was still runny. So egg all over the floor. And then I thought "Hey, my mommy gives me V8 Splash because of all the vitamins," and I got that out of the fridge but then I tripped and spilled THAT all over mommy's white carpet. So then she came home and I got yelled at a lot, and I felt so bad because the bird was still hurting and mommy was too, just in a different way, and it was all my fault. She made me take the bird to Miss Hannah's, and when I came from school the next day they had told me it had flown away, just like that. I was doing the dishes not five minutes ago and thought "They probably wrung its neck." But what a beautiful lie to a child. Because up until now I always thought of that bird as being free and happy. And I guess it is now. I don't even remember it being broken anymore. Before it was broken, it was there, perfect and whole, singing bravely to the east on a tiny tree's bough through a raging downpour.