We met at the office. Come take a walk with me, he said, I have to feed the birds. I laughed. Nobody has to feed the birds. He made tender love. I moved in. He had bird pictures all over the apartment: pigeons and sparrows dizzying around Washington Square, a speckled egg in a nest. Each morning he left early with a paper bag, was back in time for breakfast. I made scrambled eggs. He took big bites, chewed hard. He went out again for half an hour with the paper bag at noon. Even on weekends, three times a day. Drugs, do you do drugs? He opened the bag: bread crumbs. Aside from that, he was great. Tidy, a gourmet cook, didn't smoke. Loved art films and walks in the rain. I'm not getting any younger, I thought. I gave him a clock that sounds a bird call every hour. Why did you do this, he asked. Because you like birds. A quick shake of his head. You don't like birds? He glanced at the window. The sky was clear. I hate birds. Another glance. I don't want them to know. Sounds crazy, I thought, but then I understood. That's how I feel about my cousin Melissa.  

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Andrea Jackson used to practice law but finds she likes writing better. She is now an MFA student at the University of Missouri - St. Louis. Her poetry and short-shorts have appeared or are forthcoming in Margie, Rhino, Triplopia Review, Poetry Midwest, The Sow's Ear Poetry Review, The Eleventh Muse, Periphery: A Magical Realist Zine, and the anthology New Harvest: Jewish Writing in St. Louis, 1998-2005. She has received two Pushcart nominations.
 

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