The glittering glass eyes and knitted, carved, and painted red breasts waiting in the box overwhelmed her with grief.
There would be no more robins for the tree from Mum.
Robin found a living robin perched in the branches of the tree on Christmas morning. It flew to her hand and stood calmly on her trembling finger as she carried it to the backdoor. It stayed with her for a few moments, sang a burst of mournful song, and then flew away.
“Love you, Mum,” Robin whispered.