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35 The Resurrection Birds They always come back this time of year like migratory birds whose out-of-whack radar sends them north, not south when winter arrives. If there are three mourning doves huddled on the wire, I know Bea and Phyllis and Grace have flown in for the Christmas season, though my mother hated the cold weather, as did my aunts. They were raised in the mountains where, young working women, they posed in their wool coats and fur-topped high-heel boots for the old black and white Kodak. Snow covered the ground around them. They pinched their collars tight against the wind. They cooed their laments about the weather. I hope there is sunshine now in their new home, some hot tea if the temperature drops, peppermint sticks or lemon chiffon pie. They never appear as their whole selves these days, just a glimpse of a hand with a thin gold band or a fuzzy blue sock. Like birds, they are quick, erratic, and often drop a feather. Like birds, once in flight, they cannot be called back. ...

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