What My Mother Does After My Father's Death

She finds a bird fallen from its nest, crashed like an apple to the ground. Sliding her fingers through the rain soaked grass, she scoops the quivering ball of feathers into her palm. She takes it inside, to the same kitchen where she wept over her dead husband every night for nearly a decade. She feeds it baby formula from an eye-dropper, whispering I believe in your wings. I watch from behind a doorway, the broken bird, its needful cries, all of that delicate weight resting on the kitchen table, my mother, her precious grief.