Its suddenly dry limbs lay sprawled out unnaturally –as its insides wait to evaporate—the untimely act of a strong child’s foot (with strength a most relative term) brought down to a quick return to sender. At least she did not torture it. At least she (acting as God) had mercy. At least she left it be once she finished-not stopping to play with the death she demonstrated. She turned around the corner of the brick school with a squeak of her eternally damp purple rubber boots covered in the patterns of bright and lively lady bugs, flying, climbing, alive---hypocrisy at its finest. Boots that killed one of their own. Like it was nothing. Like life is something less for something smaller in stature. Like we can choose whether to let things be or end everything they are. And the others just play nearby. She probably joined them. It means nothing to her. With ease and purpose, she put her boot down and with ease she galloped away. Tomorrow she will not recall it. In fact, she will never think on it again.
Its leg twitches-then its wing. A broken wing that hopes it might fly again-a dream crushed nearly as much as its own body. It has only minutes left-less than that. The serenade of childhood grows fainter and fainter. I look up and see fresh faces full of ignorance swinging on devices built by ones who once swung too, who once were just as full of ignorance and by ones who still are just as oblivious. They played tag and picked up sticks too, in those sacred thirty minutes that never seemed quite long enough to finish the adventure. The bell always was a disappointment. But, they would trudge inside nevertheless, struggle to take off their muddy boots and silence themselves as they sat in their desks. They would think not of the lesson of the hour, but only of what they were planning to do when next the bell chimed.
Right now, the bell should ring. I cannot watch it shift any longer. What fight could be left? It is squashed almost completely. It might as well be still until the end. What gives it this motivation to move its limbs, which hang on by fraying strings and struggle? There is something beautiful in its perseverance though in vain-something strong-something more beautiful than in our own kind. We possess the tendency to recede and learn our own helplessness. But this primitive and naïve thing ceases to do so. With every last moment, it fights to stay.
Its wing still flips and flops. The bell will not beat. I am glued to this spot. The others are oblivious: I see them run and dart without a sound through the sand. They must not and should not realize that this will be inevitably their fate. But they should play now, sing now, swing now, and dance now. Ignorance must be the bliss it pretends to be. I wish I had it. I wish I could destroy and feel nothing. I wish I had no regret. I wish I did not feel compelled to sit here wishing-offering to give up part of my life for the breath to return to this tempest-torn body. How silly the others must think I look huddled over the pile of dirt and staring. I would it were only me. Its life was only hours, but each moment must make a memory for more than we can imagine. Is that why she can care less of those that dwell in tiny times, discrediting objects that exist in different decades—thinking they do not use what they are given well? She would not be able to say that if she saw the same struggle for survival I see-a greatest use for the last moments of its being.
I cannot imagine what it did during the hours with which it lived. I can only say it flew. That must be a most freeing feeling. Now, it is trapped. It will never grace the air again-only grace the grave. But, it flew once. There is such value in a life that flies at least once. That is why its wing struggles again for the same phenomena-begging anyone who will listen “let me lift from leaf to leaf, soar from sill to sill, bounce from berry to berry”. It cannot give up. There is so much more value in a life that efficiently uses each second; she will do nothing in her life as momentous as this creature she killed as it fights for life(at all moments it fights). She will succumb to the numbing of the mind and be the opposite of what she destroyed-the most sense she will ever make. But when it comes her time, she will still beg for hers, as if it were ever important enough to keep and she will believe it is.
The bell rings.
I see her weapon covered in those glorious creatures already discarded clumsily on the boot rack. As I remove mine, I place them neatly opposite hers and enter the chirping room. The others tell each other the tales they created from their games. As silence draws over the group, I can see their minds spinning and wondering what next game they will engage in-anxiously waiting for the sound of that chime. I think only of the creature, most likely defeated in the dirt outside the wall.
I read the lesson plan and begin.
