The Tree in the Back Yard

One

We moved here at the beginning of the school year. I liked the house. There were a few strange noises in my room, but at least I had my own room again.

It was a good house. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a basement, an upstairs. The back yard was spacious too, with many trees and a creek at the bottom of the hill. But my favorite part of the back yard was the big tree with lots of branches. It looked like it was made for climbing.

I was 16 that summer. I was still a child, life was easy for me, I didn't have any cares. I felt that my actions wouldn't have consequences. 

That came to an end alarmingly soon to me.

After it happened, I shut down. I stopped talking to my friends, I started ignoring my family. My grades dropped significantly and the school year ended. I was alone again. My dad went to work every day and my little sisters went to summer camp. I wanted it that way, I didn't want to spend my summer forcing smiles and useles chatter.

I began to spend time out by the tree. Not climbing, just sitting with it, enjoying the shade. I talked to myself a lot, which was how he heard me, which was how i met him.

I woke up, rubbing my face and pulling my crazy brown hair out of my face. Yawning and groaning, I left my room and went to the kitchen to eat my Honey Nut Cherios. 

I ate slowly, so it ended up soggy, but I didn't care. I never cared.

Grabbing a book from my room I headed into the back yard to read in the shade. But I stopped in front of it, gaping.

A robin laid dead at the bottom of the tree, little feathers ruffled. I stared for a moment. I supposed it was young. "It must have fallen from the tree," I said to myself. I picked it up carefully, not at all caring about the horrible deadly wild animal germs. 

I cradled his delicate little body in my hand, wondering how he died.

If birds had little bird families like humans, would he be missed? Or did he fly solo? Was he a father? Or a son? Or a friend? Did he have a birdie girlfriend, I wondered.

If birds were more like people, would the other birds consider birdie suicide? I sighed, stroking one of his tiny wings. It was a shame something so beautiful and innocent had to die.

I found a box for him and buried him next to the tree.

I began to cry. Not just for the robin. "Goodbye, little Robin," I murmured. Then I went inside. I didn't go back out that day.