I land, two tiny talons, upon the telephone line as the dawn shifts its hue from a deep blue to a misty gray. I preen my own blue-gray feathers as I look to a particular balcony. This balcony lives amongst the trees, just across from the foliage freeway, a place where two tree branches nearly connect. The squirrels take this passage throughout the day. Chasing each other. Chasing the rustling of the wind that tickles the leaves.

It’s been many dawns without a showing of the girl and her entourage of amber lions. She usually appears with some kind of life-green elixir in a mug and a book under her arm. She’s plucked all the feathers from her head. Sometimes I wonder if I could catch my reflection in its shine.

I dare not investigate further. I’ve watched both her lions take chase and conquer a fly. I need not be breakfast and stick to cooing from the safety of my telephone line. Before, when her visits to the balcony occurred every morning as the morning cracked open, she would coo back at me. Not that she is doing it as eloquently. But her efforts…I miss them.

The balcony chair, a simple thing that rocks steadily, is cast in spider webs that are now themselves days old. Even still, I can’t help but wait a little longer. For I am dove and my purpose is hope. Which is why each morning I return to this very same telephone pole. Called to it like a fellow singing dove. Hope recognizes hope.

The other birds are beginning to stir, and I send out one final coo and-

She emerges upon the balcony! Pale, shaky, a little nearly-naked bird herself. Flanked by two amber lions, standing tall as her strength. She’s sipping her leafy-green drink.

I wish I could coo in the right translation to tell her something important. You see, I am a dove with a special ability. With my eyes, I see depth. As she rocks herself gently in that chair, I see beyond her feathers, or perhaps she only has skin. I see between her bones and muscles. I see a foreign planet, a mass of once greater size. I see the mass as it has become - a diminishing collection of stars that vaporize into nothingness. Leaving her body with each breath. She is healing. She is hope.

Indeed, after a few hard days, I’ve made it back out to my balcony for one of my favorite rituals. My bones ache, and I feel a little more hopeful. I needed to feel some of the emotional impact of my diagnosis. It’s taken over a month for it to catch up to me properly. I’ve exhausted my way through boxes of tissues and Tylenol. This isn’t easy (though I don’t think anyone thought it so.) Perhaps I myself was living in a little delusion. That somehow I chose this and therefore had to like it. Turns out, I didn’t, and I don’t. AND I’m still held by love even in the dreary and dark moments. By the words you all share with me. By your various forms of support. I love you, and I’m so grateful for you. (You too, little dove.)

Sincerely,
Nutmeg

A Cuckoo of Hope

Hard Day