The Mourning Dove
Feeding the birds has
become my church.
Thanksgiving is pine cones
covered in sunflower seeds.
Christmas is fresh bags with bows on top
and a feeder to keep the squirrels at bay.
The coldest days of the year
are peanut butter sandwiches and blueberries.
The warmest are always
fresh water in the baths.
So what happens when the stray
cats learn my Bible verses?
Another of His creatures whom I love,
but they are always far too hungry.
We find her nestled in a bed of leaves,
wing resting at an angle I’ve never seen before.
It takes all day for us to save her,
taking laps around the yard with a towel and cardboard box.
I drive forty-five minutes to the rescue
and she is so quiet I’m not sure she’s still there.
They open the box to remind me she is
and tell me to write if I’d like to know how she fares.
A year later we receive a card
and know before even opening it.
I fill the feeders as an offering in her honor
and watch the seed fall to the ground.
Would she have lived if I still worshiped
in any way but this?
- - -
The injured dove we took to the rescue in Lake Geneva last Spring didn't make it. When I read the card they sent to us my heart broke, but I didn't cry. I felt like I wanted to, but I didn't. I think I was in shock. I think I still am, though rereading that card in the past weeks has allowed me to shed a few tears. I think I am finally accepting what it means.
As I reflect on this whole experience, I am shocked as to why the news of her death has moved me so. I found myself blaming my own ritual of feeding the birds for her injuries, for her death. After all, she wouldn't have been hurt if she wasn't sitting on the ground, eating our seed, an easy target.
In writing this poem, I realized that I had passed the denial phase of grief and had entered the phase of pain and guilt. Her time in my life was so short, a brief afternoon come and gone, yet I feel her loss as if she were a dear friend. Isn't life funny that way?
I think too about how easy it would have been to view everything as a waste. A weekend afternoon spent chasing a bird through the yard. Two and a half hours in the car. A donation we left them for her care. How easy it would be to say none of it was worth it. After all, she didn't make it.
But the last line of the card we received reminded me why nothing was wasted. After telling us of her passing, it thanked us for caring enough to make sure she was not living in pain or fear. It is this that moves me to tears. For me, knowing her life, though ended, ended with peace and dignity, will always be worth it.
