Fat Birds don't Fly - Original Story

A few days ago I posted one of my original paintings "Fat Birds don't Fly" (right here) and mentioned I also wrote a short story to accompany it. @silviabeneforti was curious enough to ask about the story, so here's the (translated from Dutch into English) version.

As a quick note: I originally wrote this as one continuous sentence, from the viewpoint of an eager kid (they tend to live in the now - either that or they're on a sugar rush) - but that was extremely difficult to translate, so I had to use a few comma's and points here and there, but I'll hope you'll get the idea!

“Fat birds don't fly”, I heard my grandfather explaining to my grandmother. Or was it my grandmother insisting it to my grandfather? – I can't remember exactly – I only remember standing in their kitchen, in my short trousers and my long socks – just aching to go outside in their garden full of trees and bushes, between their herbs and spices, along the mysterious paths running between those herbs and spices and vegetables and the smelly flowers – and the stinky flowers that keep the bugs away from their overflowing ever-growing garden full of rain-washed crops. My knees were still dirty from scratching and searching in the earth for bugs that were undeterred by those same stinky flowers, just before the rainstorm passed over and I had to come inside

phew – breathe

but by then the clouds had already faded away – the sky had become clear again and – yes! – my little seven year old me – ready to go – the back door opens and I'm OFF! again to look for bugs with my grandfathers HUGE looking glass in my one hand and of course nothing in my other hand – you can't catch bugs when your hands are full – and I admit I used that looking glass once – just once – to fry a bug and it wasn't a pretty sight – but now I notice the sky is full of birds flying around and yes – I guess – the birds that fly aren't fat – they're sparrows and swallows and tits and tats and they're all chasing bugs in my grandfather's garden after a shower of rain and I go deeper and further into the garden – far beyond the vegetables and flowers – way past the gooseberry-shrub – but I do notice one particular gooseberry that's huge and thick and ripe and it flies into my mouth and it tastes like – yes – what does a gooseberry taste like? – and I go on and on until I reach the ancient walnut tree – the best hide-out in all of the garden and I poke around in the wet dirt, the muddy dirt and flies come flying out and spiders come springing and worms come crawling and a little lady with a big skirt holding herself up by some tiny small cables floats up just past my nose

huh!?

now this is something I've never seen and I grab my looking glass and I see that little lady a little bit better – she's only the size of a small cricket and – huh!? – she floats gently in the wind and I don't remember her smiling but i think she was because I sure was smiling and – huh!? – I run after her while she floats up and away and out of my reach and as I try to follow her I run right through the gooseberry-shrubs and – OW! that stings! – and I dash across the herbs – desperately to follow that little buggy lady – and over the vegetables and through the spices and the herbs and I bump my head against the back door – No! it's my grandfather's back – or is it my grandmother? – I can't remember – and he or she is so mad at me for thrashing the garden but I can't say what I've seen and I'm just too afraid to ask

what they really mean when they say that fat birds don't fly?