Maya Angelou knows why the caged bird sings, but I know something else about that bird.

I suppose by now everyone has at least scanned their requisite Contemporary African American Lit class copy of "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings". I have always really loved Maya's writing, but even more in person, the smooth hot chocolate over ice cream cadence to her voice just stops me. She has such dignity, such pause in her that it makes you listen, even if you have no idea what she's saying. If you wonder what made her that way then you probably better pick your copy of that book back up. Even though all of this probably seems random, it isn't. I have a confession to make. While we were moving last week, one of the last items was our lovely sky blue parakeet in her pepto bismal pink cage that belongs to my girls. As we we have only moved a brisk walk around the corner I decided to walk her over myself. Did I mention that having birds is a complete mess? They spread seeds everywhere, poop all over their cages, and if you coax them out(and by that I mean terrify them by sticking your giant human hand in there) of that little cage, well....total chaos. I don't love pets, its no secret. Its not because I don't love animals, but because mom usually is the one left with the mess of the pets when the kids stop caring about them, and their shiny new penny quality is gone. I do it for the love of my kids, who are simply mad about all God's creatures great and small, wiggly, crawly, slimy, all of them. So you can't blame me for having the thought, "Birds hate being caged don't they? That's why they have wings? They want to be free and wild, right?" Even if they've been fed their sustenance from a convenient tiny cup from birth, I assumed they would want their freedom if only for as long as it took for them to realize they had no idea how to fend for themselves.

I opened the door. I know its terrible, but I did. To my horror no matter what I did she would not move towards the open door, towards what I thought any bird in her right mind would want...her freedom. So now she sits quietly on Emma's shelf, she sits on her little perch, never tasting the freedom of unrestrained flight. Choosing wherever she wants to go, whenever she wants to go there, she didn't even try. I was disappointed to say the least.

I realized not long after this ugly incident that I was not much different than her not very long ago. It was enough to be fed three times a day, have a roof over my head, what did I need with wings? It took me some long ponderous thought this week to discover the reason why the caged bird flies, and I have thought about having everyone wait for the posthumous release of my autobiography to tell you all, but I think it may be too late then. This caged bird had three little baby birds that lived with her too, and when she could finally see them clearly she realized they were watching and learning everything by watching her. Before it was too late entirely it was time to fly. I can't wait to find out what each of them will do with their uniquely vibrantly shaded, each divinely beautiful, wings.