She hated sanding; that never-ending task of wearing away wood bit by bit. She had been able to carve as long as she could remember and loved doing it more that anything. She could handle the shaping of the wood, or even the rough carving, but that endless sanding was unbearable.

"Mary, won't you come have a bit of food?" The door had opened silently. Mary didn't answer. She never did anything with anyone anymore, only eating at night when all the rest of the world is dead. The lady who had opened the door left, leaving her to the only work she allowed herself day in and day out, even though she hated it.

The carving had been fine before, but now that she had begun sanding away tiny imperfections, making the wood as smooth as new spun silk, she could not stop to carve more. The bird she held in her hand was the last piece she had carved, the wings spread in flight. The others stood in a row on her windowsill. The blind behind them was closed to the sun.

She continued to smooth the feathers. The feet had been finished sometime before, and now she was slowly working her way up, forming each feather. With each stroke of the fine sandpaper she let her thoughts slip away, letting random images form in her mind. The dominant ones were of two people: one was warm and smiling, the other old and prim. There were other images. The flash of a house with peeling once-red paint, the warm person showing her how to carve shapes into wood, the other throwing them out. Now there was a whiff of gardenia, a new house with blue paint, the faces both gone, replaced by others.

She didn't understand the new faces. She had wished for the one lady with the prim features to leave, but what of the other? What of the person who showed her how to carve? Where had he gone? She tried to remember, but she rarely remembered more. When she strained her memory, she saw herself in a black dress, crying. She knew she had reason to cry, but she didn't know what that reason was. There were white, fragrant flowers everywhere and someone came to lead her away. The lady who called her Mary. Then came her first memory of the house.

She wondered what it meant, who those two were. She couldn't remember. She didn't want to let herself remember.

The bird was in her hand. How long ago had she finished it? She was clutching it in her hand, the outstretched wings escaping through her fingers. It was as smooth at silk.

She moved to set it with the others in the line. The bird about to take flight, the bear with a freshly caught salmon, a three-link chain from one piece of wood, and her favorite: one of the warm mans face. That had been her first. She picked it up and stared at it, missing the woman who came in once again.

"Mary?" She stopped as her breath caught in her throat, thinking she had startled some bird on the window.

She put down the carving of the face, and looked at her. "It's not real, you know."

"It looked real to me."

The woman turned to leave, but the opening of blinds made her turn around. The sun entering the room not only lit up the specks of dust from the seldom-opened blinds, but also the carvings, giving them life.

Even Mary could see it now. The bird with outstretched wings looked like he had just spread his wings to fly. It looked real.

She picked up the face one more time. She was able to see it. She was able to understand. Mary turned, placing the carving back on the sill, to smile at the lady.

"I am hungry now, is that ok?"

The lady smiled back, "Of course, dear, it is."