Spring Break
Death of a bird
One writer's metaphor for his past
Jonathon Williams, Campus Editor
Issue date: 4/4/06 Section: OpEd Page
Anniversaries are tricky things for me.
I do not particularly like celebrating them, because I feel that the recognizing of things like birthdays and national holidays is a futile attempt to retain some trace of a past that may or may not have once been a present, and is not anymore, and which will become further distanced from the reality of the present with each anniversary that I needlessly celebrate.
Some anniversaries, however, are unavoidable, such as the day that my grandfather died, the day that I realized I would never be famous, the day that I first told a girl that I loved her (it was a lie), the day that my brother took his first steps and the day that I came to the recognition that the reality I am living is sometimes much different than the reality I like to imagine I am living.
It was one year ago that I realized what love is and what love is not, what it means to fall in love and what it means to be merely infatuated, because it was one year ago that I died to myself.
It was one year ago that I found the body of a bird beneath a tree in my grandparents' backyard and stood over it for what seemed like hours, knowing that I should bury it, but also wondering why something was holding me back from doing what I knew I had to.
I remember the exact way that I felt as I returned from burying it. I remember opening the screen door and walking through the living room with my head down so that no one would see that I was weeping.
I do not know why it was such a challenge for me to fight my sorrow for the suffering of that bird, because I am not the kind of person who becomes overcome by visible emotion.
I am not a man afraid of terrorists or criminals who have escaped from prison. I am afraid of looking back on my life as an old man and coming to the heartbreaking realization that I forgot to record the date that I told so-and-so that I did not love her anymore, or that I forgot to send someone a thank you note for the graduation gift that he or she gave me when I graduated high school.
I do not particularly like celebrating them, because I feel that the recognizing of things like birthdays and national holidays is a futile attempt to retain some trace of a past that may or may not have once been a present, and is not anymore, and which will become further distanced from the reality of the present with each anniversary that I needlessly celebrate.
Some anniversaries, however, are unavoidable, such as the day that my grandfather died, the day that I realized I would never be famous, the day that I first told a girl that I loved her (it was a lie), the day that my brother took his first steps and the day that I came to the recognition that the reality I am living is sometimes much different than the reality I like to imagine I am living.
It was one year ago that I realized what love is and what love is not, what it means to fall in love and what it means to be merely infatuated, because it was one year ago that I died to myself.
It was one year ago that I found the body of a bird beneath a tree in my grandparents' backyard and stood over it for what seemed like hours, knowing that I should bury it, but also wondering why something was holding me back from doing what I knew I had to.
I remember the exact way that I felt as I returned from burying it. I remember opening the screen door and walking through the living room with my head down so that no one would see that I was weeping.
I do not know why it was such a challenge for me to fight my sorrow for the suffering of that bird, because I am not the kind of person who becomes overcome by visible emotion.
I am not a man afraid of terrorists or criminals who have escaped from prison. I am afraid of looking back on my life as an old man and coming to the heartbreaking realization that I forgot to record the date that I told so-and-so that I did not love her anymore, or that I forgot to send someone a thank you note for the graduation gift that he or she gave me when I graduated high school.
