Pillows

A handful of soil, it was all that it took for her to tuck in the tiny bird that fell dead by their doorstep. Sleep.

She played with her nails as she tried to pry off the dirt and looked around. It was nearly six in the morning; the air was cold and crisp. She got out of the nearby woods and headed back. Adapt.

It was day one. She scours the neighborhood and took in the silence and contentment. It was too long for her to hear how the wind sounds; wafting silent whispers.

A few people had started to craft their day. Two old couple, who lived blocks away, Mr. and Mrs. Turner, as she was told, held each other by their front porch, nipping on their hot coffees and murmured sweet nothings. He must’ve said something sweet, as she playfully slapped his arm, then ran her wrinkly hand over his. He perfectly gathered her in his arms. Resting. Ideal.

She took in new thoughts, plans and lets out a smile. Her house stood ash white and proud. The dove gray roof was finally restored to what it has been before. This is home.