In second grade, I spent an entire night crying because my parents wouldn’t give me a parakeet. I buried my face in my pillow and sobbed because I spent the past two months in the library reading books about bird keeping, making lists about how to line their cage and shower them with a spray bottle. I cried and cried into my floral pillow until my father came in and switched off my night light and stroked my hair. Last weekend, I found my myself in the same position, but my pillow’s blue now and there’s no night light to cut through the darkness and no one to stroke my hair. This time it’s not about that little bird; it’s about helplessness and giving up and a sadness that makes me think I won’t make it to the morning.