I thought of all the days my Oriole would miss: cloudy days, sunny days, the days with warm breezes, the days with chilly frost. And the seasons that would pass without her, the spring blossoms that would bloom without her, and the warm sunlight that would dance without her. Children were birds, and mothers were trees, and no matter how far they flew, no matter how high they soared, they always craved the branches of the tree, and the nest, to rest.
