Four, maybe five years ago, my neighbor brought a bird to me.

Nothing fancy, no raven, just a sparrow. A really tiny thing, no bigger than a walnut, featherless and ugly. He'd fallen from the nest.

I thought he'd die, until I gave him some water, and suddenly he was alive and trembling and crying in my hand.

For three, maybe four months, my routine'd be like this: Wake up at five, give him breakfast, wrap him in paper or cotton, place him in my pocket, pack his lunch, set off.

I'd go to school, and then to work, with a bird in my pocket. He'd sleep most of the day, and when he felt hungry, or wanted to poop, he'd peek out of my pocket and chirp.

Eventually he grew feathers and was strong enough to hop around. I'd get to the office and eat lunch, and I'd set him on the carpet. If I moved, he followed me. And when he got tired, he hopped its way into my pocket and fell asleep again.

My friends and students took to calling him Pokemon, because he'd always be in my pocket or peering out of my sleeve.

Anyone would think birds learn to fly on their own right? That they have like this, instinct knowledge. Well it's not true. My little guy wouldn't fly... he didn't know how.

I had to teach him. And that's very difficult to do, for obvious reasons.

Anyway, one day, he made it. It was still dangerous because he thought cats were his friends, but he learned better.

He now lives near my parents', and even though he doesn't remember me anymore, I can always tell him apart.

If looking back at my life, that's the proudest I've been in my life, does that make me simple or just crazy?