TOM

When I was six years old, my friends and I found a bird that had been pushed out of it's own nest. We carefully picked it back up and placed it back in its best again.
An hour later we came back only to see the bird on the floor again, it's wing broken. My mother came to our aid carrying a box in which we put the bird in with cotton balls. Thus, he was named Cotton.
We fed and nourished the bird for two days until it died. We were heartbroken.
Some may call this the circle of life, I call it pure death. The baby bird never even got to spread his wings and soar, just like Tom.