#01 Angels With Broken Wings (Life, Death & In Between)
On my way to swim class the other day, I noticed something disturbing. The train station I was at was above ground and birds tend to fly back and forth through the rafters.
Once I found a comfortable perch on the platform to await the train, I began to survey the trash strewn aimlessly across the tracks. There were the normal signs of man’s impact on nature, like empty soda cans, candy wrappers and condoms, but then I saw them.
There, amongst the debris and rubbish, were two dead pigeons.
The first was on its back with one wing half spread. His/her poor tiny feet were still and lifeless. The other was just a few inches away in a position that I can only describe as “uncomfortable.”
As much as I wanted to look away from the rotting flesh and dismembered feathers I couldn't. No matter how insignificant these carcasses were to most of the people on the platform that day, I couldn't help recognizing that these were two snuffed out lives laying a few feet away from me.
A dozen and one thoughts ran through my mind: How did they die? Was it a train? Poison? Old age? Were they love birds? Did one throw him/herself in front of an on coming train when the other died? Was it double hombirdicide?
Splat! Cue Batman sound effects.
My thoughts were interrupted by a very distinct sound. I looked up to find the source. It was another pigeon positioned on a beam above the tracks that had just shat on a random candy wrapper a foot from its fallen comrades.
It was a cold irony. Here I was, a mere human, taking note of the demise of these two pigeons, while one of its own could care less. Their gravesite was his/her bathroom.
The entire experience made me think about the frailty of life. People I don’t know die every day and, for the most part, I don’t even bat an eye. I just rack it up as just a part of the life cycle and coldly move on telling myself for every door that closes, another opens.
I realized that I was no different than that pigeon in the rafters, oblivious to the death of another one of my own kind. Staring at those two dead birds haphazardly strewn across the tracks made me ponder my own mortality.
I know that when I’m dead and buried I would want for someone, somewhere to remember me. To know that I made enough of an impact to be missed. That I wouldn’t just be some rotting corpse laying beneath the surface as strangers walked by and defecated on my grave.
In this moment of reflection—sparked by the sight of lifelessness—I was reminded of how precious life is. So many of us walk around like zombies caught up in our own world, unaware of what’s going on around us. It’s just amazing what you can see when you actually take the time out to peer through all of life’s rubbish and take note of the smalls things.
For whatever the reason my eyes were drawn to these two fallen pigeons and my gaze was locked onto them until the train pulled into the station. As I prepared to board, I looked around at the people on the platform alongside me. Unfortunately, no one else saw what I saw.
Fin!
How often do you contemplate your own mortality? What steps do you take to make sure that you’re living your life to its fullest? Do you think it’s important to take some time out from the day-to-day-grind to observe nature? How do you want to be remembered when you’re gone? How different is your perception of self from the way others view you?
Speak your piece...
**BONUS**
I’d like to share a poem I wrote back in college that was inspired by a similar sighting of a pigeon skeleton.
4/26/98
I sit on the crosswalk between West and North
Staring at the carcass of a fallen bird
Lying on its back in a position of submission
As shadows of the living cross over its grave
Its brethren flutter by unconcerned with its demise
Lying upon a rocky roof, blanketed by drops of rain
A silhouette of life lying all alone
Slowly decaying to just feathers and bone
Decapitated head on a pillow of stone
With eyes rotted out like a fish drowning in air
No head, no tail just a collapsed chest
Loosely attached to a pair of fragile wings
These wings once used to dance through the air
Now, they dance in continuous stillness among scattered pebbles
Once white feathers now dusted grey
Blood washed away by the fine scrubbing brush of time
Its soul begs to fly but its body cannot
Only piece by piece, as its feathers are plucked by wind’s gloved hand
The curve in its spine points to the East
While its mangled bones play tic-tac-toe
Its chest plate folded one bone over the other
As if it were praying, “Please, someone see me”
Rest in peace
By piece by piece
It’s a miracle I see you
Because no one else does
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