A Soul Cleanse for the Birds

There has been a curse laid on the Crippen clan many years ago because of the miscreant act of a souless ginger sibling of mine. One winter morning as my brother Joseph and I lay recovering from our life saving tonsilectomies, not many of our generation were known to survive this intricate operation, I happened to note one of the first signs of the rejuvenating season of spring. Although there was still snow upon the ground, there upon a branch of yonder tree stood the biggest and most beautiful red breasted robin I had ever chanced to lay my eyes on. As tears flooded my eyes, I raised a spoon of the medicinal ice cream, prescribed for the pain, in a meager salute to it's sartorial splendor. Suddenly, the bird trembled then fell in a heap on the ground below, those tears of joy turned to those of sorrow and shock. Whatever could have caused this turn of events, I thought, as the sky darkened with clouds. Then I saw crouched in the window next to me, Satan's red headed spawn, holding his instrument of death, his newly acquired Daisy BB Gun. "Pretty good shot" the freckly beast touted. I, mustering up all the bravery within responded "I'm telling dad!". In a flash the beast was upon me, his bony finger pointed hard upon my breast, "One word of this and you'll realize the Robin got off easy" he said as the hot breath and smell of neopolitan permeated my nostrils. Until today not a word has been uttered and as punishment Mother Nature laid a curse of making me the last person to see a robin in the Spring.