Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Nothing from Nothing is Nothing

Sydney is asleep on my knee, deeply asleep for a 20-year-old cockatiel. But alas, I have to go to the bathroom, really bad. Those seven diet cokes are catching up to me. His current peacefulness is that of a child after a long day of sickness, and he had a rough day yesterday. I accidentally pulled out a tail feather. It had blood on the end of it. He screamed. Hollered. Howled. Shook. He even flew a few feet before turning around and looking at me, cocking one head to the side, accepting, but questioning.

I had to hold him for hours on my chest as he cuddled up under my chin--the knowledge of how he ended up in agony long lost by his simple forgiveness (and short attention span) and superseded by the pain that hurt whenever he moved. I could hear him, 'Daddy, help me.' How can I disturb him now for my own sake? I'm in discomfort now; he's in peace. He's so innocent; I'm an ogre. I need to make him some comfort food: mashed potatoes and cheerios. I just wish I would have put on some Depends this morning.

Do you make your protagonist dig or feel so deep? If not, why not?

No comments: