"A broken-winged bird that cannot fly."

An idea is dropped into existence and lands in my lap. I am distracted and busy, but I can't just watch it die without ever having a chance.

So I feed it. I learn its needs and wants and quirks and cares. I cradle it when it is afraid and I eventually trust it to comfort me when I am in need. What was once a chore morphs into an anticipated pastime. Then it grows into a pleasure and, finally, a necessity. I begin to realize that it has become more of a part of me than just important to me.

Then, all at once, when the world couldn't be rosier and any clouds are obscured by the light of their own silver linings, it takes flight.

It is wrong of me to watch it go with remorse. I raised it up for a purpose. How could it ever have served its purpose while bound to me? An idea cannot be concealed or it ceases to be an idea. It becomes a stagnant thought.

So I watch the traces of its flight through the sky from my place on the gray ground, often wondering whether it ever glances in my direction. Sometimes I hope it does. Sometimes I pray it doesn't. For there is nothing left for it back here. I gave it all I could give. It needs to find others to nourish it if it ever hopes to grow.

The only regret I have left is having to watch it take half of me with it.

Photo credit: Ellie Peek