Poor Little Fellas

birdMother is very maternal with small creatures.

There is her doll—which she’s had since infancy—she dresses and poses her differently each day.   I point to it; she looks at it lovingly and says, “Poor Little Fella.”

A big, very old visiting dog pads happily down the hallway in Assisted Living.  Immediately Mom leans down to pet him.  “Poor Little Fella,” she says, scratching his head.

And there are the birds.  There is a long hallway facing a garden and lined with two big cages housing four beautiful tropical birds—three in one cage and “Goldie” all alone in the other.  Mom greets the birds with shrill chirps and then feels sorry for Goldie, all alone.   “I wish they all could be outside the cage,” she laments.  “Poor Little Fellas.”

To me this picture looks like Mom’s version of what it would be like to be outside of the cage.


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