A sparrow story

A sparrow story
By Heidi Wallenborn-Cramer
At first I thought there was a mouse under the covered barbecue on the verandah.

I'd gone out to move the little tray of birdseed I keep near the door so I can enjoy watching rosellas and finches singing and dancing, with me as their private audience.

A pattering sound caught my attention. I spied a soft grey body, little beady eyes, then a flutter and flopping barely visible under the edge of the green canvas cover. I moved closer; a flurry of tiny wings stilled me.

Hesitant, I tiptoed forward then gently lifted the cover and spied a little bird. It twisted and turned, frantic to take flight; its leg was caught in a crevice of a double wheel.

I called to my husband, Steve. He gently held the sparrow. He felt her little heart beat a tattoo under his palm. Her foot was caught, held fast in the wheel's grip.

Several years ago I battled depression. A "house sparrow," I stood one morning in the bathroom of our second story home in a forest in Washington. Gazing out the window, I contemplated the death of my nearly 20-year marriage. It was late autumn and most frost-bitten leaves had pirouetted to their end, carpeting the forest floor. But one lone, yellow leaf caught my eye. It hung on a bare branch, stubbornly refusing to fall. It spun in the breeze, hanging on by a tendon. Despite the grey drizzle and cold winds, it stayed suspended between its summer haven and a loamy grave.

Sometime later, I looked for that stubborn, yellow leaf--it was still there. In fact it stayed for quite awhile until a severe, wintry gale knocked it loose. I was disappointed when it fell. I'd taken a few baby steps to change my future and had so much hope from such a little thing; I was on my way up, instead of falling down and rotting.

As Steve carefully handled the frightened little bird with one hand, he pried open the wheel with a small tool in the other. The sparrow's mangled claw dangled, useless. She peered at us through the top part of his fist and we discussed what to do. With tears in our eyes, we decided that neither one of us wanted to "put her out of her misery." I remembered some time ago seeing a bird hop around on one leg, and told him so. So he amputated the claw cleanly. He sent the tiny bird soaring over the verandah rail; as she took flight, I prayed.

Perhaps I'm still a bit like that house sparrow; maimed by life and a little crippled.

But I can still fly.