A Gentle Goodbye in the forest and the Weight of Fragile Things

Until next time, my friend.

It had been a long, relentless work week. I had been looking forward to the weekend, not just for rest but to continue working on research projects that had started to feel distant. A hike seemed like the perfect way to reset—Forest Park, so close to downtown Portland, yet always feeling like a world away. There were still many trails to wander, each holding its own secret.

The moment I stepped into the forest, the world felt different. Colors weren’t just colors; they were alive, breathing in sync with the rhythm of the earth. The greens of the leaves glowed like emeralds kissed by sunlight, their veins tracing delicate paths under the soft golden light. Everything pulsed with a life I had missed. Only two weeks had passed since I was last here, but it felt like an eternity. Work had stretched time, but here, time seemed to dissolve. I was surrounded by trees, birds, the faint hum of insects—it all felt timeless.

I was basking in this beauty, letting it flow through me, recharging, until I met him.

At first, I thought it was a leaf, just another part of the tapestry around me. But as I stepped closer, I realized it was a bird, small and fragile, right at my feet. He wasn’t afraid, didn’t even flinch. His eyes blinked slowly, but his body remained still, as if frozen in a moment of surrender. I crouched down, offering him water, gently nudging him, but there was no response. He was caught in a delicate space between life and something else, a place I couldn’t quite touch.

I felt a pang of helplessness. I wanted to save him, to carry him somewhere safe. But in that vast forest, with no car, no one to call, I was as lost as he was. I moved him to the parking lot, hoping someone would take him in, but they only offered pity in passing glances and continued on their way. I left him there, unsure of what else to do, and resumed my hike, though my mind stayed with him.

But as fate would have it, I circled back. I got lost, twice, and when I returned to the parking lot, the bird was still there, lying still. Gone now. It was clear he had breathed his last under that canopy of leaves. My heart sank, heavy with the weight of his quiet passing.

I gathered him gently and walked to a nearby tree, where I dug a small resting place. I laid him down, covering him with leaves, as if offering him back to the earth. I sprinkled a bit of water over those leaves.

In that small, solemn act, something shifted in me. I don’t know why this day stays with me so deeply. Maybe it’s because, in that tiny bird, I saw a reflection of something larger, something we all carry inside us. Life is so brief, so fragile. That bird hadn’t done anything to deserve his fate, but life doesn’t ask for reasons. It just is—fleeting, beautiful, and often beyond our control.

Perhaps that’s why this moment touched me. It reminded me that we are all, in some way, that bird—vulnerable, caught in moments we cannot fully understand, yet still here, blinking at the world as it continues its endless dance around us.

And like the bird, we disappear. But for now, we breathe. We exist. We are part of something vast and incomprehensible. And sometimes, that’s enough.