Little Kindness

Shh… Winter. Come here.” I motion my baby girl over. She runs to me, slips on the tile floor and gets up in the blink of an eye, wide armed and smiling.

“What is it Daddy?” Her voice is innocent and kind.

“We have a visitor,” I whisper. My pointer finger is at my lips. We squat down by the glass door.

“Who?” She leans forward and bangs her face against the glass, hard. “Ow!”

I chuckle. “Are you okay? There’s a door here.” She nods and rubs her nose. I point at the tree in our backyard. “It’s going to be a nest, honey. Right… There. See? We should feel so special a soon-to-be mama bird wants her home here with us.”

“Will she live with us forever?” She’s all giddy with excitement now.

“Perhaps… Outside though. And we don’t startle her, right?”

“RIGHT!” She stomps her tiny, yellow socked foot.

Shh! Remember honey, quiet voices.”

“Is this how I was born? Can I see in the nest when it’s done?”

“Hmm.” Her first inquiry fills me with dread. It’s impossible to explain to a five-year-old how something comes from nothing. But she’s waiting, beaming at me with those big black eyes. I frown, sighing with the weight of a world on my shoulders. I cannot answer. “Not quite, honey. I’ll get the ladder out and we’ll peek at the nest when she’s gone. We don’t want to look now and scare her away forever.” I don’t want to scare anyone away. Not even the birds.

I want every breathing thing, forever.

In shared silence, we follow each twig and grass woven into a bowl like shape, sealed with mud and other natural materials. A safe, cozy home. When she’s done, she settles inside and rests.

“Is she going to bed now, Daddy?”

“Yes, for a few days, likely. Let’s give her privacy and don’t forget—quiet voices.”

I’m in my study on a call, watching Winter on the security camera buzzing around the back door. I had set the ladder out as soon as the mama bird left, but this urgent matter foiled my intention to peek at the nest with her. So much has happened with the nest in the last few days.

I watch Winter close, sensing hesitation. She paces the floor with her tiny, crossed arms and contemplative brow. Don’t do it. She looks around. You better not. She slides open the door and jets for the ladder. My daughter.

“Oh, my goodness!” I hear her squeal. “They’re hatching Daddy!”

I grit my teeth watching her descend the ladder in socks.

“Daddy! They’re hatching!”

“I’ll call you back.” I set my phone down and see Winter in the hallway. “I know you were on that ladder, little one. Without proper footwear, you could’ve slipped and hurt yourself.” My frown creeps into a smirk. It’s impossible to get upset when she reminds me so much of myself. “Alright! Let’s go see.”

It starts with a tiny hole in the shell, and another, followed by frantic movement. The pristine blue-green eggs shake, roll around and knock against each other. The little lives fight their way out—bursting into existence.

“WOW!” Winter shouts.

I share her sentiment; this is all new to me too and quite fascinating.

Existence must be so bright to them. So fresh. They’re odd looking vulnerable things with wobbly, wandering necks and closed eyes. Their bodies are translucent with thin layers of feather here and there and inner workings on full display. I watch closely and take note, but time is of the essence when their feathers come in abnormally fast, blocking my view.

“Hmm. This bunch is booming. Soon enough they’ll learn to fly.”

“Where’s their mama? Won’t they be hungry? I’m hungry when I wake up and you give me food.”

“Good question and excellent assessment of our morning routine. She’s likely gathering food for them, and with the way they’re crying, she’ll return soon, I’m certain. Let’s go back inside. We’ll watch from the door again.”

We scan the sky as the babies’ mournful cries continue.

Winter leaps up and down, pointing. “She’s back! She’s back!”

Mama bird swoops down with a worm in her mouth. One baby springs up, its mouth open wide and ready. She deposits the worm. The baby gobbles it down, slithering in its teeny tiny straw size throat.

“Ew yuck!”

I chuckle, twirling one of her black-purple blue pigtails. “If you were a bird, you may have a different opinion. I’m certain that worm is delectable as spaghetti.” Winter’s skin turns a foul olive-green color at the mention of spaghetti. She’s allergic to some types of Earth food. Even the thought of it can impact her. “Apologies, honey. Daddy forgot.” We look at the birdies again, just as one baby falls out the nest. How did that happen? I missed it.

I open the glass door — “No!” Winter latches onto me, burying her face in my pant leg. She sobs. “Will it die?”

“Oh dear.” I gather Winter in a hug and wipe her inky tears with my black handkerchief. “Not everything dies, and not everything is forgotten. You must look to understand.” I kneel with her in my arms and bring her face forward. Winter opens one eye, then another. On the ground, the baby bird turns to blue dust, taken away by a cool silk breeze. The mama’s fury is potent with every dire chirp, click and yeep she makes. Her other babies wait around her, mouths wide open, wondering when their meal will come.

I put Winter down and concentrate. I reach behind her ear. The tiny baby falls into my palm. I feel and hear its heartbeat pounding as if it were my own. It opens its mouth wide, spitting miniature ivory flames. My hand stings as if I plunged it inside a volcano but is strangely unblemished.

“It has magic!”

“Mm hmm!” Damnit—even without visual damage, it really stings. I quickly run out, return it to the nest, and go back in. The mama never makes a sound, she only stares at us.

I wink.

She returns the gesture.

“The birth of a friendship,” I whisper. “You see dear, in our existence, little acts of kindness—our unique kindness, can go far… They’ll be a forever ally in our time of need. If a time should ever come. Saving a life creates a powerful bond. Don’t forget.” I look at Winter. She smiles, nods, and reaches for my hand, clasping two of my fingers. The sting is long gone now.

All is well.

written by kirsten curcio
written by kirsten curcio

Kirsten is a mother and wife. She has driven through the Smoky Mountains twice, survived a hurricane, loves nature, travelling, photography and art.

Ghost Human Bones offers fiction lovers short stories and poetry. Dive into surreal, romantic, funny, haunting myths of our world and beyond by Kirsten Curcio.
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