My mother decides we need a bird, the only pet we’re allowed to have downstairs in my grandparents’ house. At Woolworth’s, she lets my brother and me pick out our favorite. The bird is pale blue, quiet. We name her Fido. Two weeks later, my mother opens the window to reel in our clothes, and Fido flies out fast toward Newark Bay. The next bird, St. Francis, lands on the hot rim of the spaghetti pot. My mother spreads Vaseline on his legs. We find him the next day in his cage beak open, eyes shut, oily-feathered. We say two Hail Marys over him, bury him under the azaleas. Mornings at the table, before she leaves for her job sewing piece work, my mother plays with our violet bird. He perches on her finger as she feeds him scrambled eggs. She teaches us how to make him feel safe in our hands, rub his gold ears with our thumbs. We teach him to say his name. He drives us crazy saying Pretty boy, pretty boy, obsessed with his mirror, pecking his bells while we want to watch TV. After a year, he too flies away, perches on our streetlight. We go out with a broom, and my mother lifts it as far as she can. She calls to him: Pretty Boy, pretty boy. She jingles his bells. We really think he will fly down to her, that she has the power.