His Feet

His feet are like a bird on the wind, always restless, always moving—never content to stay in one place for too long. But learning to fly is never easy. He was fully equipped, of course—he had feathers and wings and a tail like any other bird—and a song that could rival the lark's. But the sparrow is a plain little bird that is often overlooked for the flashier finches and bluebirds and cardinals. Even the little sparrow has a mother, but he did not, and lacking such luxuries, was forced to teach himself.

And so he spread his little wings and leapt from the highest point he could find but the ground was too far and wind wasn't right and in a matter of moments he was spiraling down, landing on the cobblestone street with a resounding smack, bruised and broken like a wilted flower on a hot summer day. The other birds noticed but did not care, for they had their own lives to lead and did not have time for troubled little sparrow. The cats crept in, looking for an easy meal, but he pecked and he squirmed and he fought until at last they let him go—for while they could break his wings, they could not break his spirit. He lived like that, hiding among the shrubs and thickets, stealing bread crumbs from the streets—but for an animal meant to soar among the stars, restriction to the ground is torture.

And then one day he heard her sing. Another sparrow with a broken wing and a broken heart. Her song was melancholy yet melodious beyond compare. And although he himself could not fly, he was determined that she would. Somehow, he would teach her. Somehow, she would learn. For to let such beauty and innocence wither away would be a crime that not even he was willing to commit.

Years passed, and he watched her grow—watched her blossom and watched her soar. He watched as her soft downy feathers turned to copper-brown silk and her simple chirps turned into a harmonious song. He watched as she thrived and watched as she grew…and he knew that one day she would fly away.

So he put her in a gilded cage and he clipped her wings, fearful of losing his mate. He brought her food and sang for her and cared for her in every way. But she was not happy. And her feathers started to dull and her song started to fade and no matter how he tried to please her, he knew it would never be enough. For she wanted freedom and light and air and sky. She wanted to feel the wind in her feathers and the sun on her face. And that was something he could not offer.

So one day, he left the cage open and although it hurt to see her go, it had nearly killed him to see her lifeless and unhappy under the shelter of his wings.

If you love something, let it go. If it comes back, it's yours forever. If it doesn't, it was never meant to be.

His feet carried him away from home, around the world and back again—to the gypsy camp, to Persia, to hell and back again. (And I swear he has the scars to prove it.) But every songbird knows his home, and in the end he returned to the country of his birth—to the Paris Opera House—right where I was and right where he needed to be. Perhaps my father did send me an angel. Perhaps God sent us to each other so that we might both learn how to fly.

I love his feet because they led him here into my arms.