Yellow Bird

• Caitlin Carey, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2015

I sit on the old wooden bench, light streaming through the branches of the big oak tree. The wind is drifting through my hair, sending wisps across my face and neck. I haven’t had this amount of serenity in a long, long time. Breathing in and out, eyes closed, I think about everything, from the sound of wind hissing through the branches, to the warmth of the afternoon sun on my skin. I was brought out of my haven by the sound of a bird tweeting its sun song.
I open my eyes and stare at it, its yellow and black, completely carefree. Imagine that, being so oblivious to the world, no threat to you or anyone you love. But as I look at the bird I realize he has no one with him. No fellow bird to share his nest. He’s perched on the branch all alone, like myself. But in the blink of an eye, he’s gone. He’s flown away, with one flap of his wings he’s up and ready to leave. To go on with his daily chores, picking fruit, leaves and sticks. I can still see the little yellow speck off in the distance, heading towards the lowering sun, the sun just as yellow as his wings.
I wish that I was a little bird, I could fly far away, fly from my worries and struggles. But in a place as serene and perfect as this, I don’t feel I need to. I could sit here forever. If I was that little yellow bird, where would I go? Somewhere where I can dance around, picking flowers and watching animals. Somewhere like here. Right where I am. Right now. This is my paradise.
I quickly stand from my spot on the bench and walk slowly to the oak, I place my hands on the trunk and lift one foot to the base, readying myself to heave my weight up. I lift my other foot to the trunk and slide my hands to the closest branch. Before I know it I’m high in the tree, in a perfect position to see through the leaves. As far as the eye can see there are folds of rolling hills, greener than green, brighter than bright. I lay my head against the trunk and sigh, looking out towards the sun. I can see patches of purple and yellow, probably flowers. That’s where I would fly, into the abyss of perfect serenity. But I’m not a yellow bird, so I sit here. Nothing else to do.