A little sparrow often flutters in, while I am on my laptop. She gets precariously busy instantly, chirping rapidly across the room. I switch off the fans, when she gets thus excited, and leave her some bread on the window-sill, which is devoured by crows, but never gets to her. But she never complains. All she does, is she chirps, and gives me happy company, without a word. Ideal. Perfect. She never flies to any other part of the house. I know, that sparrow, is a she, because she chirps, in rhythm. She is so much like me. I am so much like her. But she like being quiet. Just like me.
Today, when I woke up, my mother, motioned me to a soft little lump, in one corner of our hall. Under the large windows, I couldn’t first place, what it was. So much light. And below, lay a sparrow, dead, a little spot of shadow, under the large windows of light. The little sparrow, had not a sign of injury on her body. Her eyes were open, but not in pain. I stroked it's head. I had always wanted to touch her,feel her, but she flew away, even if I budged from my place. Today I picked her up, and placed her carefully aside, to be buried. She did not retaliate today.
Whenever she lost her way in,thus to my room, on purpose, I always imagined her chirping, I always imagined it coded a message for me.
Now, I’ll never know, what it meant.
Todays morning, is a hope for winter, in the middle of an uncharacteristically hot October. Winter is setting in perhaps. The sparrow was cold.I feel cold.
Now, I’ll never know, what it meant.
Todays morning, is a hope for winter, in the middle of an uncharacteristically hot October. Winter is setting in perhaps. The sparrow was cold.I feel cold.
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