By Gianna Russo
I took from my parents’ house was the bird bath, the one that stood beneath the mulberry tree in my grandmother’s yard, then when that house sold, had gone to my mother. Its bowl was big as a hubcap and baby blue. The pedestal was a Doric column. Both concrete. By the time I took it, its two parts had tumped into the oak leaves of the back yard, separated: one moldy full moon, one mossy sawed trunk.
I staggered by myself carrying the bowl to my car; I rolled the pedestal through the dead grass, nudging one end then the other with my feet. Heaved them into the trunk. Driving, I planned how I’d scrub and paint, set it outside my studio window for the cardinals, wrens and jays. At home, I heaved the pedestal from the trunk and thought, Now the easy part, the bowl. I gathered its full weight in my arms, swayed towards my oak tree. I lowered, lowered. Inches from the ground, I let go.
The bowl cracked like a shot. Two halves lay split apart. Two empty yards loomed behind me. My mother and grandmother were gone and would never bless birds in my yard.
Only this morning did I remember: last year the winter robins splashed and played all morning in a puddle in my driveway.