The Language of Sparrows Read Online Free PDF Page A

who wanted to drown. She gazed at the blank wall, imagining it covered in calligraphy. If those verses got Sierra into the project, she’d cover every wall in Sierra’s psalm.
    “All right,” April said, a little too brightly. “Let’s get to work then.”
    All evening, April mixed paints and cleaned brushes as Sierra hunched over the tiles, moving brushes in meticulous strokes. The rounded strokes of Hebrew and the angular strokes of Greek filled the arrangement. When Sierra finished each square, April added a decorative flourish as a border.
    “You’re a natural.”
    Sierra didn’t respond, but her eyes shone all the same. Writing columns of Hebrew and Greek on a notepad was one thing, but seeing her words painted across the tiles must be another. This was art.
    April brought in the toolbox. “Here, you want to help me with a hammer and the nails?”
    When they were done pounding in the nails, Sierra stretched her back, obviously stiff. April picked up the first tile. “You can relax, honey. I’ll hang them up.”
    She hung the tiles, leaving only one gap in the center where she planned on painting a centerpiece on the largest tile. Something with loose modern lines to accentuate the theme of the verse. That would have to wait until another day, though. It was late.
    When she was done hanging the pieces, she looked back at Sierra, whose face had gone too still. April pulled back to the couch to see the wall through Sierra’s eyes. The letters slanted so that the Greek flowed right and the Hebrew flowed left in a stream. The lines floated away from each other, which gave the wall a modern-art look. The trim added an effect. She didn’t understand why Sierra was looking at the tiles that way. Once April added in the centerpiece, it would be gorgeous.
    “Sweetie?”
    “I can’t look at that.” And with no explanation, Sierra left and locked herself in her room.
    April sank onto the couch, looking at the letters like a code she could break, a code to her daughter’s heart. As she leaned back, taking in the wall, her newfound hope withered. Gary loomed out of the letters. Hebrew and Greek, art and poetry, love of God and a psalm of despair—his legacy filled the room.
    She had a sudden urge to tear the thing down. Instead, April went into the hall, touching her fingers to Sierra’s closed door. April prayed a meek little blessing through the white wood, something quiet enough for only God to hear. Bless my little girl, heart and soul and mind.
     
    Friday afternoon, April stood, taking in their masterpiece. The thing April liked least about her job was the varied hours. The commissions were too promising to turn down, but it bothered her leaving Sierra alone on Saturdays and, too often, past supper on weekdays, especially in this neighborhood.
    She wondered what to do about the tiles. Should she take them down before Sierra got home from school? They added color and life to the apartment in a way she hadn’t thought possible. She couldn’t tear them down. It wasn’t just Gary’s legacy on the wall; it was Sierra’s. April wanted her daughter to see her own passion and skill, large and beautiful, staring out at her every day.
    The truth was, the tiles brought out something long forgotten in April, too. A sudden yearning took April to her boxes, packed away in the closet. Gary had given her a camera the year before he died. It was a peace offering, an apology, many things, but never a real invitation to use the thing, and so the camera had ended up in the box.
    She found the Nikon buried under a package of unopened art pencils and scrapbook pages still in their plastic sheaths. It was a box of might-have-beens. She sat up straight, pulling the box into her lap, refusing the dark thought. It could be a box of yet-to-bes.
    After slipping new batteries in, she carried the camera outside. The sun was too bright to capture anything today. Everything would look yellow and washed out even with massive