Marilu swung a weighted rope at the branch and missed. She tried again and again until the line sailed over the branch and she could hoist up a blue birdhouse. Securing it and testing its sturdiness three times, she was satisfied, and moved on to another part of the golf course.

            Her little wagon full of colorful birdhouses rattled behind her. She pulled the weight and searched for another perfect tree.

            She hung a yellow birdhouse and a red one. Purple and green and orange. Soon only the unpainted birdhouse remained in the wagon, alone, rattling away. This one deserved the tallest branch on the seventh hole, par four, and she would never stop looking until she found it. Seven birdhouses altogether but this one was the most precious, most deserving.

            When she did find it, it felt less important than she had imagined. The world didn’t seem to care in the same way she did. She just wanted to share the burden but everyone else looked away or at their phones. She smiled widely but also cried an unbound and silent cry.

            “Your father won’t be happy,” a groundskeeper said.

            “He never is,” she replied and carried on about her business.

            She entered the clubhouse’s storage room and soon emerged with her wagon now full of birdfeeders. She headed out again toward the seventh hole. Her smile was still there but not as wide. You would have to look closely to find it.