“I don’t even know how long, and the prospect of freedom terrifies me.”
Sara doesn’t judge. She simply pulls up a seat and sits down beside me. “When I was younger, we had a pet bird,” she reveals. I nod, happy to discuss her bird if it means we don’t have to dissect my feelings. But I soon realize there is a moral to the story.
“He was a little yellow canary. Although caged, he used to sing the most beautiful songs. I often wondered how something imprisoned could sing all day long. Late one night, after my father came home stumbling drunk, he saw me talking to Pepsi. The bird,” she clarifies. I smile, remembering I once had a bird or, rather, a chicken of my own.
“He scolded me, calling me stupid for making friends with a bird. He said I was stupid like my mother.” A tear trickles down
