I ask my brother if he remembers the pigeons. When we lived in New York City, a family of pigeons started inhabiting our terrace, which was lined with fake grass and only big enough for a mini grill that we never used. The birds built a nest underneath the grill. The mother laid eggs, and both the mother and father left white splotches of shit all over the terrace like abstract art. After a few weeks Mom insisted that Dad get rid of the pigeons. This happened when I was six or seven, a year or two before we moved to Florida, where our parents still live.