Not quite deep in the forest, but far enough into the thickness of the trees that one, ill-informed, might mistakenly think it deep, dwelled an unassuming little house, almost a cottage, with an equally modest little garden all around it, and a humble little fence around that. In this house lived no one royal, magical or scandalous in any way, as far as Bailey could tell. No, it was just she and her mother, who left every morning to go to work, and returned home every evening as the sun sank on the horizon, smeared with grease and sweat and wanting nothing more than to get off her feet, sit down with her little daughter, and braid her hair into pigtails. During the day, Bailey would work on her studies, do her chores and prepare supper, or play outside in the garden. She never dared venture beyond the little fence that surrounded the garden, for her mother had warned her not to. Indeed, as she kissed her young daughter goodbye in the morning twilight, she would repeat, "I love you, my little Bailey, but don't leave the garden while I'm gone, or your legs are likely to fall off and you'll never see your dear mother who loves you ever again."
"I love you too, Mom." Bailey would reply, the unquestioning love known only to children welled up in her eyes. And she would stand there in the doorway and wave as her mother disappeared down the concrete path for another day. So it went, day to day, that this was and had always been their life. Bailey knew nothing else, and did not question it. But, all that said, and is perhaps as to be expected, she was at times awfully bored!
After a while, it became common for Bailey to sit outside, in the garden, and talk to the birds that flew back and fourth over the little fence just as much as they pleased. She didn't speak bird, of course, and much the same didn't understand a word of it, but that didn't stop her from tweet-tweet-tweeting away her afternoons. The birds, for their part, seemed to enjoy her company as well, as they began, one or two at a time, to perch on the garden's trellis, waiting for the girl to finish her chores and come out to join them. Bailey imagined her little friends telling her all about the exciting, exotic places and people outside the confines of the fence, the trees and the boundary of her own memory. For all she knew, that was exactly what they were doing.
There eventually came a time when the little girl simply could no longer contain her own curiosity. She just had to leave the safety of the garden and explore the world, even if it was only a little bit of the world. Her mother would never have to know, she reasoned, and anything was bound to be more interesting than spending another afternoon sitting outside her boring house in her boring garden! So, one day, as her mother kissed her goodbye, and voiced for what seemed like the millionth time her warning: "don't leave the garden while I'm gone, or your legs are likely to fall off and you'll never see your dear mother who loves you ever again," Bailey made the most important, but scariest decision of her life. Today she would disobey her mother. Today, she would go exploring.
The little girl could barely contain her excitement that morning as she, just as every other day in her young memory, stood in the doorway of their small house and watched her mother disappear down the concrete path. She rushed to finish her studies and her chores, completing them even before any familiar bird songs beckoned her outside. The noon sun blazed high in the sky as she stood at the edge of the garden, the rest of the world literally at the tips of her toes. At once, she forgot her hesitation behind her and trudged steadfast into the forest just beyond the world she'd always known.
Not fifty paces had she walked before Bailey could no longer see her home through the trees behind her. With this realization, she stopped in her tracks and suddenly found herself just a tad unsteady. Her heart jumped! Were her legs about to fall off? She laughed to herself; of course not. That is ridiculous. Legs don't just fall off, or she'd have read about it in her school books. She walked on. Five more paces, and she heard a sharp CRACK! It had come from under her. Perhaps she stepped on a stick? Another step, and another CRACK! Bailey stopped again and looked at the ground, but didn't see any broken sticks, twigs or anything of the sort. "That's strange," she said out loud to nobody in particular. Just then, the little girl was jolted by the most deafening CrrrREEeeeeaK of her life, and before she knew it, her torso, followed by the rest of her, fell backwards and hit the ground with a blunt THUD. Her short legs stood in front of her for a moment before collapsing, piece by piece, with a resonating clang into a small heap before her eyes.
The half-girl didn't scream; she didn't yell; she didn't cry; she just lie on the dirt for minutes that could easily have been hours, staring at the remnants of what had once been her own legs. Finally, as the realization of what had happened finally set in, Bailey did the only thing she could think to do: she called for her mother. "Mooooooooooooom!" She cried, "MOOOOOOOOOOOOM!" She pleaded with all the volume she could muster, but her mother never came. Before long, night fell and the sounds of the forest encroached upon the half-girl. Desperate tears inched down her face as she attempted to drag herself through the dirt, back in the direction of her house, but she found her torso too heavy to budge. Eventually the night passed, and then days went by, each one filled with Bailey's cries for her mother, who never came. So there she lay, and it rained on her and the wind blew, and brown, dead leaves fell on her, and the seasons began to change. Each day eroded into the next, and the half-girl had all but given up any hope of ever seeing her mother again.
One chilly autumn day, Bailey was shaken from her dreary daze of hopelessness by a very familiar sound. "Tweet! Tweetweet!" She perked up instantly, and answered the song with her own tweets! Before long, two merry little finches soared down towards her from the trees and perched atop the deteriorated pile of rubble she could scantly believe was once a part of her. The little birds would not have recognized her if not for her song, as she was barely a picture of her former self. Her cheeks were stained with jagged lines of rust where tears had flown for weeks, dried up and flown again. What was left of her hair was now caked with mildew and mud had packed itself nefariously into what seemed to be every last ding, crevice and crack on her half-body. The sparrows none the less, continued their song, and the motley trio exchanged tweets until the sun fell from the sky.
Bailey was overjoyed the next day to meet her sparrow friends' return. But, they had not come alone. Following in their path were more birds than the half-girl could ever remember seeing in her short life. They soared above her and sang, and Bailey envied them. Amidst their singing, they began to drop things: sticks and feathers of all shapes, sizes and colors, which rained onto the half-girl to her bewilderment. Before long, she was practically covered in these strange provisions. Then one of the sparrows from the day before landed again on the rusted mass that had once carried her to this very spot, and flapped his wings. "Tweet! Tweetweet," he sang, and flapped. He flapped and flapped. And, although Bailey did not understand bird talk, she suddenly understood.
Three days and nights, Bailey worked to build her wings. Getting off the ground took a good deal of effort on her part, but she flapped with all her might and finally took flight. The girl found it surprisingly easy to glide through the air on her new appendages. She soared up above the trees, and she saw that the forest was not so deep. And she saw an unassuming little house, almost a cottage, with an equally modest little garden all around it, and a humble little fence around that. She saw her mother, walking down the concrete path on her way to work. And she saw a familiar-looking little girl with lovingly braided pigtails standing in the doorway, waving, unquestioning love welled up in her eyes. On she flew, towards the horizon, never again to look upon the world she'd always known, tweet-tweet-tweeting all the way.
Poetry