My mother believed in leaving something behind for the birds. In late spring, when the yard turned that deep New England green—wet grass, sap thick in the pines, the blueberry bush just beginning to ripen. She would gather every hairbrush in the house. A barbie themed pink one from the bathroom. The cracked black one from the kitchen drawer. The one missing half its bristles that no one had the heart to throw away. Even the cat’s. We sat on the back steps and pulled. Strand by strand. Our own small winters. She said bluebirds liked the softest pieces, so mine were perfect. Cardinals preferred the longer ones, the ones that could wrap twice around a fragile beginning. The wind took what we were letting go of. Carried our hair toward the tree line where the yard stopped and the woods began. I remember the way the wind took it, her honey blonde hair and my brunette, knotted together.

Later, we would look for nests tucked into the maples. Watch as the blue of a bird’s back flashed through the rhododendrons. She would point and say, See? That one’s ours. And I believed her. I still do. Because with the birds, we never got it wrong.