She said she wanted to make a gallery wall of birds. As someone who’s been building nests since I could waddle to my mother’s bedside, I completely understand. 

I called it my bean, my favorite blanket. I don’t know if I misunderstood the word, or simply couldn’t say it, but I knew in order to exist I had to have it. My bean. Because to exist was exhausting. Balancing on those chubby and wobbly feet, always trying to keep up with the long legged woman that called herself mom. When chase weary, I needed that bean between heart and face, coddled in the security of a springtime bird forever carrying a stick. 

And when the sun went down, I snuck between the nightstand and the overflow of my mother’s bedspread. I rubbed my bean between thumb and forefinger in one hand and the edge of her bedspread in the other. And I was saved. 

It’s no surprise to me that my grandmother’s portrait, the first landscape I remember, and the nesting bird, all come from the same palette. All sticks in the nest I continue to build. Beans. 

I may not wobble any more, but certainly I fumble along, still blanketed in all of love’s comfort. Love’s gallery. And I am home.