Bird

The baby cried, but the wailing was a soothing Jazz melody in E flat, a sound associated with that baby for thirty-five years. A Bebopper, a jazzer, a revolutionary, a Bird! He could make you fly like no one else. But the scars, the scars he received while crashing after flying too high, higher than the birds should ever go. Every breath was a sigh, a craving for what he could be, if only… The baby cried, this time the Bird flew without any help, for that baby was his own. This time the baby crashed for him, her life instead of his, and his life depleted with every step after that fateful day. The baby cried, for a man with the Baroness. For a man who hated hospitals and wouldn’t go. For a man who finally played one last note of good bye. For a man whose dying rocked the masses, and the masses not believing a word. The baby cried for the Bird, the legend, the man, the Bebop sound, rolled into one.