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Today when I stepped out into my garage to set something in my car I heard a bird calling. Not just any bird. It was a bird from my grandmother’s house. A special bird that I know only because as a child I heard it calling in her yard. As soon as its voice struck my ears it reminded me of being a child in my grandmother’s house. I’d be up in the pink bedroom with the two old rope beds that have now migrated to my daughter’s room here at home. It was often bright and sunny at Grandma’s house because we always visited in the summers. The grasses were freshly mowed and the farm smelled like heaven. She was frying bacon downstairs for a pancake breakfast on their wraparound porch, while birds called out to me, a seven-year old girl upstairs.

The birds singing in the background help define my experience with Grandma and Pop at their home. They lived closer to the earth than we do today, burning fires in the fireplace year round, cutting flowers from the garden and bringing them in daily, taking all meals outside in the fresh air in a relaxed close way, and all often with birds calling out quite happily. The feeling I got then was a good one. Today I feel it again when I hear the birds outside my garage door carrying Grandma’s spirit and her intentions and her love of me across the decades, across the world, and across my spirit.

Thank you whatever kind of bird you are that also lived in Maryland.
Wonder if birds are sealing happy memories for my kids here at home as well.

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