The very first time I opened my eyes, the sun peeked from behind a bush of leaves, filling my vision with stark whiteness. I pressed my wrinkled lids back together, and screamed in pain, waking my siblings from their slumber.
Huddled in a lump, we cried together as soft balls of clouds came and gone. The winds came with its attempt to gently lull us back to sleep, but to no avail. The tree sang rhymes of ages old to calm us down, but we drowned it out. Neighbours even stopped by after hearing our agonizing shrieks, but it was not their place to meddle with us three children, barely two days’ old.
We quiet down a little as we hear familiar sounds of wings flapping by. A large shadow was casted over us, shielding us from the scorching heat of the sun.
“Breakfast!” we cried in joy, taking turns to receive little nourishments into our tiny beaks. When our stomachs were filled, we finally piped down and dozed off one after another, giving our mother some peace and quiet for the sunny afternoon. We huddled back together in a corner of our home, warming up each other as we snooze.
Life was simple, and good. There was always food and plenty of naps in between.
I would look up upon the branches of oak and its leaves of emerald and amber, my view always framed in a perfect circle by the tall walls of my home. I grew fond of the whistlings of the leaves as they dance in the wind, occasionally catching one falling onto my bed. I would sneak underneath, my naked body curling up in its warmth and fell asleep in the comfort of my very own little makeshift room.
As feathers began clothing myself, I began to understand the songs of the trees. The taller I grew, the more I learn about their histories; the tales of the winds, the chronicles of the great flood, and the saga of the long drought.
My siblings often found me perched very closely to the trunk, listening to the soft grumbling of the swaying branches, paying utmost attention to their music and the stories they hold.
“What a weirdo,” they would say, before hopping away towards the edge of our compound, chirping enthusiastically about the other birds on the neighbouring trees.
If they’d slow down and give listening a chance, perhaps they would hear what I heard; that’s what I’d always thought. But they never do, and hence I’ve turned into the strange runt of the brood.
Once, the leaves told a tale of a songbird, whose voice is of an angel and songs are of pure love.
“A voice sweeter than yours?” I asked, for all I ever knew of was these few voices that came into my life.
“Sweeter than ours can ever be,” they replied.
“I should wish that I will have the luck to hear it.”
“We wish you will too,” they said to me.
Every once in a while since then, I would ask for stories of the magnificent songbird. The branches and the trunk would comply, weaving from their memories the songs sung of its adventures.
“How do you know if it is the songbird?” I asked one day, because music speaks to the heart, and every heart hears a different tune.
“You will know when it is the one true songbird. He can never be missed,” they assured me.
“I should hope I will meet him one day.”
“We hope you will too,” they chimed.
As my feathers grew thicker, my time on the tree grew shorter. No bird like me ever stay put in one place, let alone on one tree for their whole lives. My siblings would countdown to the day we take flight, receiving our one final gift from our mother: freedom. But me, I cannot say that I want it necessarily.
What is wrong with staying where I am, if where I am at makes me happy?
The leaves rustled in glee and the trunk chuckled at me, “There is so much more in the world than what we can give to you, little one.”
I shrugged, refusing to accept such proposal.
Nevertheless, the day eventually came for me to take my first leap into the big world. My mother ushered her children to the precipice of our home, lining us up against the chilly, morning air.
“Jump,” she said, and off went my eldest sibling. She screamed on her way down, flapping her wings in panic, and found her tempo a mere seconds away from hitting the ground. Proud, she made her way back to us, chirping and tweeting before flying to the opposite tree.
“Jump,” my mother announced once more, and off went my brother. Being the most agile of us three, he immediately found his balance, moving his limbs so elegantly it seemed like he weighed a literal feather. He made a few turns in midair, and aimed for the sky. He has always wanted to see the world from high, high up. Finally his dream was coming true.
“Jump,” my mother said one final time. I turned to her, asking for a little more time.
I feel my heart pounding against my bones, and my limbs freeze up against my sides. Looking down towards the earth, I suddenly felt dizzy, afraid of falling and crashing into the ground. The branches swayed and creaked around me, cheering me on.
“You can do it, little one,” the trunk tried to comfort me.
“Jump,” my mother said.
“Please, a little while longer,” I pleaded.
So many voices ringing into my ears, tangling up my thoughts and fueling my anxiety as I inch closer and closer to the edge. The trees were talking loudly, with my mother trying to get through to me, while I’m trying my hardest to centre my thoughts, until when I finally heard it.
A voice as soothing as the gentle breeze of spring, washing away all problems and worries of yesterdays and tomorrow. A voice so sweet it seduced the world of its attention. A song so beautiful time almost stopped to preserve its beauty. And with it came a pair of wings as delicate as reeds, and feathers as black as the darkest night. He glides in the air so effortlessly it almost seemed like he was floating.
He was the songbird, the one and only, I was sure of it.
He flew by my home and the other homes in the trees, swerving in and out of bushes, taking in all the best things mother nature had to offer. All the while singing his praises of the world and its components.
He sang about the trees, the branches and its leaves, not forgetting the trunk, and listened to their replies. He sang to the other birds, the bees and the squirrels. He’d even sang to the clouds, and the wind and the sun.
Then he sang to me.
“Don’t be afraid, child,
for you are built to take this leap.
The whole world is waiting
for your greatness to be unleashed.
Life can be a playground,
or it can be a battleground.
The choice is yours to decide,
in those little wings, that hold all might.”
I swallowed hard, and took a deep breath.
And stepped off the edge, spreading my limbs as wide as they could go.
And I soared into the blue, blue sky.
