I was in the fifth grade when I saw a living thing die before my eyes. Although I did not exactly cause the death, it was a hard blow just the same.
“Joyce! Come out quick! There’s a sparrow outside…and…and…I think it’s dying,” I was in the study, tackling some of my assignments, when my brother suddenly came into the house. He was in second grade, and his wide bunny eyes seemed distraught and were shaking, somehow. I stood up as fast as I could, sending a few papers flying down my desk, and I ran out of the door, holding my brother’s hand.
Looking back, I don’t know why I stood up and sped out of the house so fast, or why I held my brother’s hand. But I think it was my brother’s look that made me feel a sense of urgency and seriousness. He looked so insecure, so distressed, so pained. Anyway, my brother led me to the corner of the parking lot, and there was the bird, and I could see why my brother looked so distraught.
Its head was set out at a weird angle and there was dark red blood coming out of his neck. The brown feathers had lost their sheen and were caked, in some parts, with blood. Its beak was opening and closing, opening and closing, as if it were trying to catch the last gulps of air of the world before it left. Its small beady eyes were crazed, flailing here and there and filled with pain.
“Come on, Joyce! Save it! Do something!” My brother was crying now, uncontrollably, and pleading me to do something, anything, to help the bird.
I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there watching the bird, feeling helpless. Then, I reached out to the bird, which was probably a stupid thing to do but was the only thing I could think of. I lay the dying little bird in my cupped hands, and tried to go to the neighbor, Michael’s house. But just as I put him in my hands, the bird’s eyes stopped flailing and looked straight at me. I never knew that a bird could look at something with such solemnity. But it looked at me, holding me in its cold gaze, and then, its body went limp, and its beak stopped moving, and the light gave out of his eyes. And it died, just like that, right in my hands.
I could hear my brother screaming somewhere next to me, I could feel tears rolling down my cheeks, and a cold shiver went through me. That gaze. That ice cold gaze. I was the last thing the bird saw before it died, and it made me guilty like crazy.
It was supposed to be looking at the green trees, the royal blue sky, something other than me. It was supposed to be in its nest, in nature, other than my dirty hands. I felt like I committed a crime. And I never ever forgot that gaze the bird gave me.
So, I know how that little monk felt when he saw those fish and snake die. It was probably devastating for him and he must have felt so much guilt and shame. Encountering a death is hard, and it leaves a permanent mark in your life, even if you didn’t directly cause it. I remember that bird to this day and how it looked at me. I still feel regret and remorse and keep on thinking that if I hadn’t reached out and just brought the neighbor, Michael, the animal guy, to the bird, it might have lived to see a new day. I could hear the bitterness, shame, sadness, pain, and utter guilt I felt that day and continue to feel whenever I think of the bird in the little monk’s crying. I know he learned his lesson and that he will never harm another creature on purpose again.
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