When I was six, a bird flew into the living room window. Well, the window wasn't open, so it only made a loud THUMP. I leaped up and ran outside to see if it was okay. It wasn't. I saw it laying on its side in the wood chips beneath the window, behind a Rhododendron bush full of big pinkish-purple flowers. I buried the bird in a light bulb box next to a little tree my dad had just planted. And then I cried all day.