A morning cold and dark and quiet. Zero degrees.
One cardinal wakes early to avoid the squirrels and takes the seeds I offer.
The sun glares.
Grandma D. said, “I don’t belong here,” and she was right. From the
nursing home back to her apartment, she is home, happy. Back home
after almost a month, she is beaming. We would do anything, but she
asks for only a little.
Lying in bed, owls on all sides talk to one another: a soothing conversation, repetitive, like lying in bed as a child
listening to grown-ups talk through the walls. A deep voice – my father’s – speaks muffled fragments… memories… before I fall asleep.