I remember that, when I was small, I found a baby robin beneath a tree. It had fallen from its nest, though where that nest was we could not see. I immediately set out to save it. My parents set up a little box with a towel in it and I put the bird inside. He chirped and I would feed him. He did not grow hungry and was never neglected. A week later he was dead. I buried him beneath the tree where I had found him.
I’ve thought about the bird, from time to time, on through my life. A tear used to well up in my eye whenever I heard another young one chirping. I wondered why all the things I’d done hadn’t meant anything, why the bird had died anyway. As I got older though, and thought about it more and more, I realized something. Sometimes things must pass away. We may put forth all our effort into them, and still find the life in them has gone away. It is inevitable, as much a part of existence as a newborn’s screams or a toddler’s stumbles. Sooner or later we all have to die.
I am like that hatchling now. I am in a bed with towels. I am fed when it is needed. The nurses are good; they do not neglect me. I smile for them. But it is all for naught. In a week, there will be one last ride for this old body. By that time I will be gone. Perhaps when I go, I shall see the robin. I hope I do. He deserves my thanks.
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