99 Stories of God

12. No

The mother had forgotten the child’s rabbit-fur muff. It had been a long time since the child had died. It was of a staph infection when the child was four. The mother had two other children, whom she loved, and Iris remained in her heart as well, loved.

But she had forgotten the muff, which was discovered in the way such things often are, when the mother was cleaning up, cleaning out.

She went through the albums and boxes of photographs, but she could find no picture of Iris with the muff, though the little girl loved to dress up in hats and gowns and long gloves and beads.

The mother nevertheless remembered now that it had belonged to Iris, her little child.

She had heard that in this decimated world, people who enjoyed songbirds should hang mesh bags filled with twigs, hair, fur, and yarn for nesting material.

I saw an oriole’s nest once that was constructed with cigarette butts, the owner of the wild-bird store said. Sad.

The mother placed Iris’s white rabbit-fur muff on the branch of a tree in the hope that birds would find it. So many beautiful, safe nests will be made from this, she thought.

But it remained on its branch untouched and remarkably resilient to the elements through the mild winters and dry springs.

Eventually, the mother needed assistance with living and moved to one of those establishments that provided such assistance. The house on its little plot of land was put on the market and made available for sale, but not before a gardener pruned the branch that held the rabbit-fur muff from the tree along with many others.