As days lengthened and warmed those with feathers lost them. One by one, or in downy clumps.

Idris asked that they be sent to her. First those from friends who had suffered and survived. What others considered disease-ridden she saw only as beautiful. She arranged them onto medical things. Onto syringes and kidney dishes. Onto stands that had once held bags of plasma and anaesthetic and liquids to sustain people laid out beneath them.

She posted a group of them as an online installation, and sold the lot, when other artists were struggling to even see a clear future.

People began sending her feathers. Survivors commissioned works from their own moult. Others sent the fallen feathers of fallen partners along with pleas, and apologies in advance. She did what she could.

Idris found a larger studio.

She made plans for a commissioned installation. Five feathered rooms that would celebrate the reopening of the Museum of Art. When the time came.

Still the feathers arrived.

Idris rented a warehouse.

No date could be set.

It would be magnificent.

But it would have to wait.

RH June 2020

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