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The Nest

Shoshana Schwartz

I opened the shutters and sunshine exploded in my face. The heat attacked my arms, and the scent of summer crept up my nose. I breathed deeply. “Morning, Michal. Sleep well?” I turned to face Gavi. “Not exactly.” “What does that mean?” I knew it would sound silly. “The light from the digital clock kept me awake.” Gavi half-grinned, half-frowned. “You could have moved the clock, you know.” “I was too tired to get up.” Feminine logic, perhaps, but the truth.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

I sat down to my sewing basket envisioning my final creation. Tiny, white cotton pants edged with white ribbon; little, white cotton shirt with an even smaller collar and a hint of lace; white hat the size of a grapefruit rind. My sister’s bris, her third, was the occasion. I’d probably be kvatter — again — and I wanted to connect with this little creature before the big event. Then, after it was all over, he’d cry, and I’d provide the tears.

A flutter of wings in my ear startled me and I looked up. A red-brown pigeon, white at the wing tips, stared at me from a perfect, rust-colored circle in the center of its mottled face. It was probing my petunias, and I shooed it away.

I turned back to my sewing basket and started cutting out the hat. Then I took a short break to drink, stretch my arms, and wiggle my fingers. I came back — and so had Mr. Bird. He was rooting around again in my petunias.


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