Arthur watched the bird feeder every morning from his chair by the window. Forty years. He kept a journal, one line per bird, the species, the time, the weather. I teased him about it. I said he loved those birds than breakfast. After he died I brought the journal inside. I thought I’d donate it to the Audubon Society. I opened it. Fourteen thousand six hundred entries in his small, steady hand. Chickadee, 7:14, overcast. Cardinal, 7:22, light rain…
My hand was still resting on the cool kitchen counter when I finally pulled that last journal out of the box. The house felt too quiet. It had been three …
Arthur watched the bird feeder every morning from his chair by the window. Forty years. He kept a journal, one line per bird, the species, the time, the weather. I teased him about it. I said he loved those birds than breakfast. After he died I brought the journal inside. I thought I’d donate it to the Audubon Society. I opened it. Fourteen thousand six hundred entries in his small, steady hand. Chickadee, 7:14, overcast. Cardinal, 7:22, light rain… Read More
