This is not part of a happy story. I scribbled this in a notebook waiting to get on to a plane to visit my mother. She died before I got to her. It had taken me a long time to get there, and it took me a long time to get back to where I was before.

This is a picture of an owl as my daughter thinks it might look.

This is a picture of an owl as I remember it.
It was a barn owl. It was given to me because pigeons are birds, and barn owls are birds, and I raised pigeons.

The kids who brought me the owl had killed its mother. I took care of the owl for two days, showed it to my science teacher (Mr. Brown), and let it go by leaving the cage door open one night.

I don't know what became of it after that, but I like to think it was better off for having been delivered to me.

That was a long time ago. Where does it all come together?
My mother collected little owls -- figures, pictures, wind-up toys. I gave her a few. I think she would have liked the drawings.