They’re what I think about when I get up, the birds. They don’t ask much of me, a few crumbs, a finger to sit on. It’s simpler than it’s ever been. I don’t know their names, I don’t want to. I just let them come and go, the birds.

He died, my husband. He didn’t leave me much, a sunken armchair and dirty bootprints in the kitchen. I did care for him, though. Every Friday evening after the Legion, he’d bring lamb chops home. He knew a man and that’s all I knew. I’d cook them and serve with mint sauce. Sundays I roasted a chicken. A turkey was too much for the two of us. Always a pint of brown over mild on the side. He never complained. I never complained. He died.

I don’t eat a lot these days. I buy too much bread. That’s why I come here. I bring what’s left over. I should only get half-loaves, but I keep getting a full-tin loaf. Habit I suppose. Won’t change it now. I don’t eat a lot these days. The birds like it, though, so it’s not wasted.

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Photo: The Pigeon Lady by Feggy Art.

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