My mother gave me this little wooden bluebird. He has followed me around the house. Flitting from room to room, making himself visible in brilliant blue and red. There is something special about his simplicity, his primitive form that, I think, spoke to my Mom as she held him in her hands. I like to think that I can still feel her hands around his tiny body. That we hold this bit of blue together. Our hands overlapping, gently enveloping each other with the promise of things to come.
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