Under Grumpa's Hat

Once, a hen was bitten by a snake. Poison seared through her veins, and she staggered back to her henhouse, trembling and desperate for help. But her flock turned her away. “The poison might spread,” they clucked, pecking at her until she fled. She limped into the wilderness, her leg dragging behind her. Her tears fell not from the snake’s venom, but from the coldness of her sisters. They watched her leave, certain she’d die alone.

Days turned to weeks. One morning, a hummingbird darted into the henhouse with news: “Your sister lives! She’s in a cave, weak but alive. She lost a leg… She needs you.” The hens paused, then shrugged. One muttered, “I’m busy laying eggs.” Another sighed, “I must tend my chicks.” A third chirped, “I’ve corn to gather.” Not one offered to help. The hummingbird flew back, its tiny heart heavy.

More time passed. When the bird returned, its song was a dirge: “She’s gone. Died alone in that cave.” The henhouse fell silent. Eggs rolled forgotten. Chicks peeped unanswered. Corn scattered unclaimed. Regret, thick and suffocating, swallowed every excuse. “Why didn’t we go sooner?” they wailed, racing to the cave. But all they found was a scrap of paper, its words sharp as talons:

“You wouldn’t walk a mile to save me… yet you’ll cross the world to bury me. Tears at funerals aren’t for the dead—they’re for the living, drowning in guilt for love they withheld too long.”

The hens trudged home, their hearts hollow. They’d feared the snake’s poison, but they’d never imagined a deeper sickness: the rot of indifference.

Moral of the story:
It’s easy to make excuses when someone needs us. But regret outlives every reason we invent. True kindness isn’t in grand gestures after it’s too late—it’s in showing up before the silence settles. Don’t wait until the cave is empty.