Valeria
The Sparrow
There is a small market that fills the space outside the main gates into Assisi with stands of vegetables and flowers on both sides of the square. The market goes on toward the big, beautiful church dedicated to St. Claire, and stands that sell shoes, clothing, and kitchenware. I had already bought fresh, curly lettuce, but not too much today since I was going to Cortona on Sunday to visit my friend L. I began walking leisurely along the stalls—just looking. Sometimes a perfect blouse appears among rather cheap looking things, but nothing interesting this time, and I began to walk back.
As I approached an old lady who was looking at the ground, I saw what she was looking at. It was a tiny, lively sparrow moving away from her, apparently not frightened, just curious of the human. The lady then looked up at me and said, "Take him! Take him with you, he has been here since yesterday, poor baby! Take him"
As a child, I had lived in the country during the war when there was no time for toys. My brothers and I had become capable of picking up young birds fallen from their nests and feeding them. I still remember one who slept with us, stood on the arm of our Victrola listening to our records, and followed us around the house. With these memories, I picked up the tiny bird that now opened its large beak and cried only once then settled into my hands. I felt the slight electric energy from its tiny body.
Afraid it might get under my car seat and become difficult to find, I placed it in the bag with the lettuce, and drove to the mountain where I had planned to fill my water bottles at the spring, as I often do. Once the full bottles were in the trunk of the car, I carefully opened the back door and picked up the sparrow, speaking gently to it, saying there was no need to be afraid.
I held it for several moments while thinking, and then its destiny and mine connected. Would I try my best to help it survive and grow, shelter it from my neighbor's three cats always in search of food? Tiny in my hand, it seemed to be waiting for my decision. I walked to the wooded side of the deserted mountain road, opened my hands, happy to see it look around with surprise—and a moment later it had already disappeared.
My realization from my friend Valeria's story is, "Love comes in many voices. One voice may speak of the attention needed for a situation; while another voice speaks of the act of helpfulness."
* "Everyone is a Writer, Family Writing Parts 1–10" may be found in the Archives from 2015 – 2021.