Birdy doesn’t have a last name. If she did, she doesn’t share it. Rumor has it that she lived with her mom until her mom passed away ten years ago. The lack of paying taxes caused her to lose the home she inherited. That caused a domino effect of bad decisions that brought her to the streets of the Garden of Eden.
Each Wednesday she sits on the corner of Brock and Jameson, near the bakery. Her fingers twitch, and her hair is iron gray, tumbling free fall over her shoulders. Her hair is a collection of knots.
I wanted to pick up some of the bakery’s homemade caramel cinnamon rolls. On Wednesdays, they sometimes have day-old muffins available. Birdy is like a child in some ways. Her dark eyes are almost vacant, but her smile is reminiscent of my young niece.
The clerk at the bakery handed me a box of four rolls. I picked out seven different kinds of muffins and added ten dollars to a coffee gift card. When I stepped out of the shop, Birdy nodded at me in her vacant way. I handed her the muffins and the card. She giggled like a kid on her birthday as she dove into the bag and carefully arranged all seven muffins in a row on the ground.
“Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday…” Birdy kept mumbling and her voice faded as I walked further away.
What was she like as a young woman? Was she married? Did she have kids somewhere now grown? I quickly said a prayer for her and drove home. The smell of the caramel rolls reminded me how incredibly blessed I am and how delicate life is balanced.