one bird, two stones

My little birdie who, when he’s feeling best, chirps and warbles happily as he flits around the house with one of us always in tow. He’s a handsome boy with smooth, fair skin, a mass of auburn hair, large blue eyes and a few freckles, like beauty marks, sprinkled here and there. He’s quite small for his age, and skinny, his rib cage reminding me of that of a quail or pheasant, his little heart beating against my palm.

My little birdie, yesterday, was struck with two stones—two seizures—one in the early morning, hours before dawn, the other at dinner time. It has been years since he’s suffered two seizures in the same day, and my heart sunk like a stone in a cold river.

I feel like time is getting away from me, each dose of chalky chemicals packed neatly into tiny colored pills tethering him to a life of nausea, headaches, dizziness, preventing him from spreading his wings to soar.

And so I search far and wide for a little seed, a little green flower, for my birdie to nibble, that perhaps will take the sting and stun out of the seizures and the drugs, perhaps will make him want to sing forever.

He's sleeping now, all curled up in a downy fluff. I hope he dreams of blue skies and gossamer clouds.