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Narrative Writing

The narrator finds an injured bird in their home that their cat had attacked. They rush to help the bird and tend to its wounds, but see that it is gravely injured with a large gash near its jugular vein and mangled wings and feet. While trying to save the bird, the narrator is overcome with memories of their friend Kari who had passed away in a train accident. Despite their frantic efforts, the bird dies in the narrator's hands. The narrator buries the bird and finds solace in knowing that while others have died, they themselves are still alive.

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Aradhana Sivaraman
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66 views2 pages

Narrative Writing

The narrator finds an injured bird in their home that their cat had attacked. They rush to help the bird and tend to its wounds, but see that it is gravely injured with a large gash near its jugular vein and mangled wings and feet. While trying to save the bird, the narrator is overcome with memories of their friend Kari who had passed away in a train accident. Despite their frantic efforts, the bird dies in the narrator's hands. The narrator buries the bird and finds solace in knowing that while others have died, they themselves are still alive.

Uploaded by

Aradhana Sivaraman
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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Life Is Precious

Smeared blood, shredded feathers. Clearly, the bird was dead. But wait! The slight fluctuation of its
chest, the slow blinking of its shiny black eyes. No, it was alive…

I had been typing an English essay when I heard my cat's loud meows and the flutter of wings. I
turned slightly at the noise and found the barely breathing bird in front of me.

The shock came first. Mind was racing, my heart beating faster, and blood draining from my face. I
instinctively reached out my hand to hold it, like a long-lost keepsake from my youth. But then I
remembered that birds had life, flesh, and blood.

Death. Dare I say it out loud? Here, in my own home?

Within seconds, my reflexes kicked in. Gloves, napkins, towels. Band-aid? How does one heal a bird?
I rummaged through the house, keeping a wary eye on my cat. Donning yellow rubber gloves, I
tentatively picked up the bird. Never mind the cat's hissing and protesting scratches, you need to
save the bird. You need to ease its pain.

But my mind was blank. I stroked the bird with a paper towel to clear away the blood and see the
wound. The wings were crumpled, the feet mangled. A large gash extended close to its jugular
rendering its breathing shallow, and unsteady. The rising and falling of its small breast slowed. Was
the bird dying? No, please, not yet.

Why was this feeling so familiar, so tangible?

Oh yes. The long drive, the green hills, the white church, the funeral. The Chinese mass, the
resounding amens, the flower arrangements. I, crying silently, huddled in the corner. The Hsieh
family huddled around the casket. Apologies. So many apologies. Finally, the body was lowered to
rest. The body. Kari Hsieh. Still familiar, still tangible.

Hugging Mrs Hsieh, I was a ghost, a statue. My brain and my body competed. Emotion wrestled with
fact. Kari Hsieh, aged 17, my friend of four years, had died in the Chatsworth Metrolink Crash on
Sep. 12, 2008. Kari was dead, I thought. Dead.

But I could still save the bird.

My frantic actions heightened my senses and mobilized my spirit. Cupping the bird, I ran outside,
hoping the cool air outdoors would suture every wound, and cause the bird to miraculously fly away.
Yet there lay the bird in my hands, still gasping, still dying. Bird, human, human, bird. What was the
difference? Both were the same. Mortal.

But couldn't I do something? Hold the bird longer, de-claw the cat? I wanted to go to my bedroom,
confine myself to tears, replay my memories, and never come out.

The bird's warmth faded away. Its heartbeat slowed along with its breath. For a long time, I stared
thoughtlessly at it, so still in my hands.
Slowly, I dug a small hole in the black earth. As it disappeared under handfuls of dirt, my own heart
grew stronger, my own breath steady.

The wind, the sky, and the dampness of the soil on my hands whispered to me, “The bird is dead.
Kari has passed. But you are alive.” My breath, my heartbeat, my sweat sighed back, “I am alive. I am
alive. I am alive.”

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