The Bird that Cannot Fly

I.
Same old day, same beginning. I wake up, in everyday fashion, to my sister singing in the shower and my mother humming in the kitchen. It’s the ordinary, pop culture clashing with waltz and Mozart. However, without this my day is empty, a bird cage without any birds.
Stretching out my toes under the home-made quilt, I rub my eyes and stare. The sunlight pours into my room by a single window, only shaded by a soft lace curtain, caught in the rusted bars of an empty bird cage. No canaries this morning.
I fix up my hair so I look decently fashionable, giving no attention to my worn down sweat pants and t-shirt, and walked out into the hallway. The faded sky blue wallpaper guided me to the smell of heaven and hums of the early hummingbird.
“Good morning dear.”
My mother looks up from her newspaper and steaming coffee. Her beautiful green eyes reminded me of the vibrant wings of a humming bird.
“Good morning.”
I sat across from the hummingbird, staring down my small cup of orange juice and soggy pancakes. Nothing different here either. Picking up a fork, I raised a piece of pancake to my mouth.
“Aussie! Good morning!”
My canary sister leaps into the tiny kitchen, beautifully dressed and pampered.
“Hey Kathy dear, hurry and eat.”
The hummingbird returns to her newspaper, and the canary lands next to me. Her pancakes don’t seem so soggy, and the morning sun was no match to her smile.
Just like every morning, the canary sung, the humming bird hummed, and me? I sat, the bird that couldn’t fly.