With an "I'm outta here!" and the slam of the door, it begins. The little bird, testing her wings, dives to parts unknown, pinwheeling wings trying in vain to stop the inevitable crash onto the hard cold ground. Mother bird cries out to her young that it's too soon, she's too young, pleading to her to wait, just wait a while longer until her wings, her still fragile wings can support her. Her daughter, incapable of listening, plummets to the ground, feathers flying furiously as she descends and descends and descends until finally, all movement stops. Lying in the dirt, her mother out of reach far above her, she creeps away certain that her way is best. Her mother cries.
Or...there's no furious slam of any door. There are gentle and loving cracks in the tie that has always and forever held them together. Heartache and loss intermingle with pride and love. Mother bird knowing that small steps of separation are necessary for her little bird to successfully fly, but still feeling the loss, the pain, every tiny crack in the tie like a knife slicing into her heart. She sighs and turns away to wipe the tears from her face. Her baby bird begins to test her wings, growing stronger and more confident with each flap. Her mother smiles.
