Bird by Gavin Yamey

She sits in the armchair by the birdcage, watching the cockatiel's doomed attempts at flight. The porcelain swans on the mantelpiece are loved for their regal shine. She crochets baby clothes to the music of Val Doonican, sucks on boiled sweets with hardened gums, finds solace in card games and brandy.

Once a week she visits her doctor. “Hello Esther, what can I do for you today?” She has her six minutes, he hears her confession, she leaves with some new pill-lotion-powder, the modern sacrament of healing. The doctor finds himself lost when she has gone. He writes something vague in her notes, like “lumbago” or “skin rash,” to validate these meetings. He knows he is ministering, but never dares suggest any other arrangement, for he finds comfort himself in what is unsaid.

She is in exile. She once dried her own ostrich meat, stripped flesh dessicating under a distant sun. There were family gatherings on porches, barbecues, outdoor cinemas, children's races captured with early cine, all gangly pride and toothy grins in grainy black and white. Heat, and belonging.

I have not seen her in a while, so I ring the bell and wait. I hear the click, shuffle, click, shuffle of her slow march with Zimmer frame and concentration, until at last there is the usual cry-through-letterbox, “friend or foe?” She looks tired, a woman in waiting for her return to somewhere. She offers me tea with a tot of brandy, adds sugar from a china bowl with its little round knitted cover weighed down at the edges by silver balls. I am given strips of toast with anchovy paste, chopped herring garnished with the gratings of a hard boiled egg, heavy apple pie. “Grandma,” I say, “I just had lunch. I'm not so sure I've room for …