My first encounter with death

During my childhood years, my parents would leave me with my grandparents for the summer vacation. Three months I would spend every summer in a quiet village with a handful of friends and surrounded by a natural environment filled with plant life and farm animals. We had ducks, geese, pigs, cows, chickens, and turkeys on our farm. Among them, one species in particular fascinated me: chickens. 

The chickens in our small farm were not quite domesticated. No one could approach them closely without them sensing you and running away. I wanted to grab one to let them know I am friendly, and I will not harm them. So, I built a trap. With a box and a stick, I planned my devious plan. I placed some corn on the ground and positioned the box above it, supported by the stick. The stick was tied to a long rope, and I waited silently, hidden, for one of them to approach. As expected, a curious and hungry chicken approached, lured by the presence of the corn. I pulled the rope and successfully captured it! 

Quickly, I removed the box and gently grasped the trapped chicken, intending to offer reassurance and convey that I am not its enemy, but rather, I desire its well-being. As I gently caresses it, I noticed something – it was terrified. This was not what I wanted, so I let it go. I needed a different strategy; I needed to understand them better. So, I studied the chickens more closely, and I noticed something reminiscent of what I've observed in many adult humans: they can hardly change. 

That day, my perception changed. I needed to teach the next generation of chickens that humans are not a threat, so they would no longer flee from me. As the new chicks hatched, I took close care of them, feeding them from my palm and approaching them discreetly until they grew more comfortable with my presence and perceived me as their nurturer. One particular chicken grew closer and formed a strong bond with me. It followed me everywhere I went, staying close and feeling protected and cared for. I was its world, and it radiated with joy and vitality. 

One day, as I played with the chicken, I was called from the backyard, prompting me to rush there immediately. In my haste, I hurriedly opened the door and dashed outside, with the chicken following closely behind. Without realizing it, as I exited, I unintentionally closed the door behind me. For some reason, I stopped. Something felt abnormal. I turned around toward the door and opened it. There lay my faithful chicken, motionless and lifeless. I was petrified. I didn't move; I simply sat there and watched. The once full of life chicken now lay motionless and empty. Strangely, I didn't feel a sense of loss. Though I loved chickens and only wished for their happiness, I hadn't formed an attachment strong enough to experience grief. But I felt something. I empathized with it. I was its caretaker, yet I caused its demise. In that moment, I felt a sense of quiet emptiness and coldness. 

I felt death. It was then that I understood the depth of darkness. I understood that the end of life is real. Everything changed for me in that moment. That powerful memory since I was a young boy changed my future thinking and decisions. That experience made me cherish life more and now I always look back when closing a door.