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  • Writer's pictureReuben Berger

The Bird that Flew


I had rented a beautiful loft on the top floor of an Old Victorian House down in Yorkville along this journey. I called it the 'House of Artists'. Having to come in through the main entrance, I got to know this beautiful family. The mom was a Tango dancer, the son a musician and one of the daughters an amazing artist. And there I was, the writer in the loft. For sure one of the best places I have ever lived in my life. We sure need more places like that. One day, there was a little drama on the porch just outside the sliding glass doors.

A little bird lands on the porch and tries to fly I called my grandmother “What do you think I should do?” I asked. “Let it die in peace,” she said. “Perhaps I should put it out of its misery.” “No, you’ll feel bad if you do that,” she said “Alright Boobie -- you’re right.”

The bird was quite still on the porch it barely moved. it looked scared it was vulnerable to attack

I went out for a few hours the bird was alone now

Later, I didn’t see the bird but then I noticed a movement at the far end of the porch and a moment later as if it was waiting to show me that it was okay it flapped its wings and flew through the leaves of the giant tree and was gone

I stared death in the face and then saw it fly away.

Every second of life is to be cherished no matter what condition one may be in.


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