![]() ![]() My throat got tight as I thought of my father, but also of my mother, 13 years down with Alzheimer’s, bedridden, incontinent, unable to turn over or ask for what she wants, able only to croak sounds and smile her occasional but still lovely smile. In Pier One yesterday, caught like a magpie by all the Christmas glitter and glow, I saw LED candles with tiny red cardinals on them. And I think of my mother, too, acquiescing to him, sharing his dream. Whenever I see cardinals, real or otherwise, I think of Dad, I think of that place, a home place for him, a vision he’d worked toward all his life. Among the many birds who winged in were cardinals, crimson feathers startling, vivid, unforgettable. There was a big plate-glass window in front of which Dad had hung bird feeders. The last place my Mom and Dad lived in before he died was out in the country, near Lake Fork, Texas. ![]()
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