I visited my dad this weekend on the farm where I grew up. My grandmother’s house droops in shambles, full of mouse poop, a former shadow of itself on the now deserted farm. Empty and haunting, I remembered movement and the smell of constant meals wafting from her stove, served on the grey table at precisely noon and 6:00 p.m. as she stood against the counter and watched us eat. The most disheartening scene– the bird feeder she’d had installed with a flat wood table right outside her window so she could watch the colorful birds gobble the breadcrumbs she spread out two times each day. Empty, without one bread crumb, the bird feeder shown an eerie bright white. Even the wind chimes that blew consistently throughout the day beneath that same tree played music no more. I searched for them, but they were gone.
You can spot the bird feeder through the window on the left.
Jennifer
G.I. Crockpot 