There is a silhouette of a woman in each of these drawings. That woman is my grandmother who, every morning, would toast a couple of pieces of bread and put jelly on them. She would then dice them up and toss them out the back door for the birds. When I asked her why she was giving our bread to the birds she would hold a finger up to her lips and tell me, “Listen. . .”
When I did, I heard blackbirds, mourning doves, warblers, finches,and sparrows. My grandmother, Mae, would look down at me and tell me, “For a piece of bread, you can hear God sing.”
Some stories write themselves.
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Reblogged this on Doc Quill’s Weblog and commented:
“Some stories write themselves.”