This Bird Has Flown

I thought of those words -- the second half of the title to John Lennon's Norwegian Wood -- this morning as my lovebird as flitting around the kitchen while I cleaned his cage. In putting the cage back, I recalled how before she left home my daughter used to insist that I rotate the bird's toys lest he get bored (sound advice according to the bird books, I later learned). So I went down to the basement to dig out the box of bird paraphernalia, visions of my daughter in her younger years dancing in my head. Made me a bit sad to think she's left home, I recalled telling my wife that in many ways those would be the best years of our lives, when the kids still thought of us as their world.

The bird box was on a shelf in one corner and as I pulled it down I glanced over to see a couple dust-covered bicycle helmets, left over from when she and her brother were small. Seeing her old purple helmet, a vision of her as that little one burst into my world, and I couldn't help it. I was so overwhelmed with the realization that my little girl is truly and forever gone, gone into an independent young woman, and never really coming home again.

And I couldn't help it. I cried, real tears, and trembled. And sobbed at the forever finality of it.

That bird had flown, and my role now is to stand back and watch her fly.

And I miss her so much.