The feeding of feathered friends became a ritual in the morning to him. In the busy monotonous life, we are like going back to the time of having children. But this time, he became a “mother”, not me.
Mornings become the time I most expect. We exchanged more than usual glances. It’s like excitement when you open the door to meet a stranger or a new friend and invite them to a prepared meal. We are anxious to see if they will come, have enough food, do they like what we cook and come back.
One evening, upon returning home, I saw my husband sitting in front of a small bowl of mixed cereals. “This is great for the birds,” he said as he traced his fingers with the fingers. “Good for their digestion”. I watched and asked myself, “What else?”.
On Sundays, he spends an entire day learning about birds and their food and when they eat it, how much each meal is, why they eat so little. Our conversations begin with the story of birds. For example, a bird can sing 2000 times a day, the pigeon’s feather is heavier than its bones. At night my husband reflected on his day by counting how many birds came to the house and how long they stayed.
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