The Chicken

The chicken was dying. She could not walk. I ran about and carried her gently. I held her near the water so she could peck at it. I hand fed her corn. Momma and Poppa did my chores- they could see how important this was.
My brothers scoffed- "she's just an old chicken."
But she wasn't just an old chicken. She was a gentle soul, a wise spirit. And she was dying. I could do nothing to stop that and it weighed on me. But before I could drag my feet and slump on the couch, I had to help her.
I sang lullabies, rocking her gently, as if she was my sick child. I watched her fondly for hours, fell asleep, and woke up crying. Momma and Poppa talked about doctors and therapists. They thought I was crazy.
I knew better. I just had to save that chicken. But it seemed she was destined to die.
One stormy night, I woke up, my heart pounding. I could sense that she was leaving. Quickly, I threw on my slicker and boots and ran out into the wild rain. Past the barn, through the horse field- to the chicken coop.
I took her up in my arms and sobbed . I sat in the mud, and held her as her life leaked away. She was going, going and I could do nothing but cry helplessly. I lamented to the wind and rain, and rocked her. I rocked her to her death, and then she was gone and I was all alone in the night.
Finally, my mother came, pried the empty body out of my arms, and carried me to the house.
And I knew that the chicken was utterly gone.