Tanager

There existed a small farmhouse about a half mile from a creek, outside of the mountains. This was where I chose to make my residence. I had long since passed my prime, content with living a life of solitude. There was a field where I kept livestock; I tended to check in on them at dawn and dusk, leaving them to graze undisturbed during the day. This was where I found the bird with the broken wing. 

   It was a small, red thing, barely the size of my palm. It couldn’t be much more than a baby, judging by the way it screeched, calling for its mother. I brought it inside, wrapped in a dish towel while I inspected the wing. I wouldn’t be able to set it— the poor thing wouldn’t be able to fly. 

   Aljanah— as I had named it— soon became a close companion. The bird would root around in the pastures by my feet in the dewy mornings while I tended to the cattle, searching for insects. He would hop on the counter and chirp when it was time to be fed, and sway in the breeze when I left the kitchen window open, leaving the air smelling of sweetgrass and pollen. 

   He grew, still fitting in my palms, but more snugly now. His crippled wing had healed improperly, which was to be expected— and I found myself, despite everything, caring for this creature more than I ever thought I could. Sunrise through sunset, every day and every night, Aljanah was my one companion. I relied on him for connection; he relied on me for life. 

   In the fall, as the leaves changed and foraging season began, Aljanah would bring me the odd acorn or mushroom he picked up from the ground— foods the bird seemed to consider human, helping me prepare for winter in his own way. It intrigued me, as in the time I had cared for him he had never before displayed such behaviors. 

   He’d been flapping his bad wing more as well, testing the limits of his flight. I was afraid he’d break the defective wing again. A second break could mean indescribable pain. A pain I wouldn’t be able to let him live with. 

   In the spring, Aljanah stopped chirping. He was a vocal bird, typically. I didn’t realize how I enjoyed the constant chatter until the sounds were few and far between. He was maturing, I supposed. Older birds quieted down. 

   The morning of the first of May was when I was confronted with the fact that he had lived longer than Mother Nature had ever intended for him. He was perched on my shoulder as we made our routine walk through the pastures when Aljanah, intrepid, undaunted, Aljanah, decided to fly. 

   And instead he fell. 

   I knew then that Aljanah would not make it to see the sun set that night. 

  I brought a dishcloth out to the field where the bird lay- the very same one I had bundled him in when I found him years ago. I sat cradling him close in the tall grass, watching as the rising sun painted the sky in streaks of pink and orange, feeling his breathing become shallower under my calloused palm. 

  I exhaled as he took his last breath, laying his body down to rest. 

  “Fly for me, Aljanah. Rejoice. You have earned it.”

  After all, he was created to soar.

Makenna Delap is a sophomore in the Literary Arts program at Lafayette High School. They enjoy writing essays and most fiction, and are an avid member of Model Government. When they are not doing either of these things, you can find them going on walks with their dog Griffin, browsing the local book store, or nerding out over art.