A journal of narrative writing.

Who hasn't noted sparrows sometimes forgoing their usual trees and hedges to build their nests in garage eves or the top of old milk cans or abandoned mailboxes whose jaws have permanently dropped? They bring twigs and straw, string and cheat-grass, even a hirsute strand of pink yarn salvaged from a forsaken art van craft, building around the prize of a wiry long brown hair recently brushed out of the tail of a skittish horse in the neighboring field. Eventually, she did the same, my grandmother—always discreet, yet starting to feel those last hot afternoons of our Indian summer We would drive down the road to mail our letters and find hat pins and photos in envelopes amongst the bills. Who knew when the next item might appear. A rose daubed scarf. Her father's state senate confirmation Bible. A silver filigreed dish. She never would presume to bring our inheritance to our door, but leave it quietly and as she chose—her giving carefully calculated to become more lavish then reckless as home approached.