I put the birdhouse on the kitchen counter and examined the paint, faded but still bright under the roof.

One side leaned a little, as it always had.

That afternoon I walked to the hardware store for a new hook.

The owner helped me select one that would hold the weight in wind.

I climbed a short stepladder by the back fence and hung the birdhouse beneath the maple tree.

Patty leaned over from her garden.

“What’s that?”

“A piece of my past that found its way home.”