She sits alone in the garden.
Holding a scrap of pink lace, she listens to the birdsong ringing in the trees.
Her grey eyes dart between a single bird and the woven fabric punctuated with patterned holes that she clutches in her damp hands.
The tiny bird turns its yellow chest toward the woman and serenades her.
She cannot remember why she is in the garden. Her memory is perforated like the fabric she holds onto.
The warbler chirps her story, a melodic recounting of who she was and is now.
The sun warms her hands and her face which is fixed, attentive, on the bird who sings her tale.
The solo ends.
The small bird takes flight.