Nostalgia

I remember a time I found a dead bird.  I was six years old, and my home at that time was a monolithic apartment complex that loomed over all other structures in the neighborhood.  My best friends and I were darting about the proximity of our home, yelling, laughing, and making silly faces.  Our bellies were full of rich ice cream and fried oden and the day was just splendid.  Then I found a dead bird.

No, no.  Not a roadkill.  Just a bird.  At first I thought it was only sleeping, because it looked so serene as it lay still on the cracked pavement.  I stopped running and knelt towards the beautiful bird.  Its feathers were of a lustrous blue and yellow, and its tail was shaped like a folded fan.

I had never seen such a bird before, let alone a dead one.  I was usually frightened of animals for I was a rather jumpy child back then (I still am in someways), but something about this bird allured my attention.

But it was dead!  What value does a dead creature have?  Without a "soul" or "life" circulating within its body, an organism is a mere shell.  Bodies are like machines.  Just as a machine would have a malfunctioning component or a missing screw, a body is wrecked with flaws like allergies and cancer.  Without an operator, the machine becomes a piece of junk.  Without a soul, a body becomes a rag doll.

This bird was dead.  Yet, how beautiful it looked!  It's round eyes were closed softly, as if it were slumbering on a good dream.  Its feathers were folded delicately to the side.  I knelt towards the bird, and gently placed  it on my palms.  My friends shrieked, "You're touching a dead bird!  You're touching a dead bird!  Ew, ew, ew you're gonna get rabies!"

Without saying a word, I walked to the playground across my apartment with the bird nestled in my hands.  My friends trailed behind, still expressing their disgust quite frankly and loudly.  When I felt the soft, sandy terrain of the playground, I knelt down once more, carefully placed the bird aside, and began digging a hole on the playground with my bare hands.

I dug, dug, and dug some more.  With every scoop, a second passed, and my friends watched me tensely.  The sun was scorching hot, and I began to perspire profusely.  My shirt clung to my back and I felt wan from the heat.  Still, I kept on digging.

I finally stopped when the hole was as wide and deep as a pot.  I peeked in, checking for any extraneous material that may disturb the bird's rest.  There were none.  Then I picked up the bird once more, and gingerly placed it in the hole.

I stared at the bird one last time.  Sweet dreams.  I filled the hole with my bare hands.  My friends helped me this time.

These days, I don't have time to appreciate the small things that make life meaningful.  I don't "play" anymore.  I don't even run around with friends.  And if I were to come across a dead bird right now, I'd probably walk on or cringe.  I would never, ever bury it with my own hands, let alone kneel towards it.

Thinking back on those days, I can't believe just how much of a fun-loving, radiant ball of energy I used to be.  I was an angel, a sweet kid who had enough sympathy to bury a dead bird with his own hands.  I am nothing like that now.  My innocence has deteriorated and my compassion is no more.  I've become a cynical egoist.

I wish we could go back and experience our childhood one more time, the time of our lives when we always knew each other, when we always loved each other, when we always forgave each other.  The time of our lives when we never had to worry about anything, when our parents were truly loving, when our teachers were amicable.  The time of our lives when we were really free, when we we didn't have to concern ourselves with conformity and nonconformity, when we didn't have to sacrifice anything for a cause.  The time of our lives when play was available all the time, when ambition wasn't included in our vocabulary, when we were never hurt from our shenanigans.

What is this?  What is this that we smell of?  Nostalgia.