What does it mean when you see a white dove?

‘It’s a dove,’ He condescended to inform me, ‘you know… peace, unity and happiness all of that.’ I sat in silence. I wasn’t all that sure that that’s what doves represented at all. And what if the doves simply did not want to represent anything? What then? Can doves not simply just be doves if they so, please? He snapped at me then. Daydreaming was a habit of mine for which we did not share fondness. He had certainly made that much clear when ensuring that he kept me and my wandering soul far enough away so that not even the most adventurous of spirits could reach him.

My son rarely bestowed his contemptuous gifts upon me, and when he did it was only to half-heartedly to console my raging loneliness up here. And in this grandiose abode, audience long since cleared off, rage and rage I did. I like to count my tearful floods as animosity if only to empower myself as a weak widow and mother alike. But now! Perchance the theatre curtains may pull back once more, a captive audience present, ready in their seats to perceive and humiliate me as I helplessly flail in a salty lake of my own design. Well, one audience member at least. I’m sure the bird wouldn’t mind. To my memory birds tilt their heads often and make a habit of cooing. It makes them look interested, questioning. So, then it is not my fault if I bore the dear creature, for it should have not fronted as to be so invested in my sorrowful soliloquies.

He’s still talking, the bird perched on his shoulder now – beady little eyes that thing had. Maybe it wouldn’t make such a good audience member after all. And come to think of it, that head tilting felt a little patronising. What could a beast so small and so ‘pure’ know of me. And how dare it judge me? Of course, I know my appearance isn’t much these days, I’m not pearly or new or a symbol of happiness. In fact, I’d say when people lay eyes on what remains of this animated corpse they grimace, invaded with the knowledge that one day they too will have practically have maggot worming their merry way through orifices, and that they too will drag themselves through empty houses as their offspring pursue, blood in their eyes. And if the promise of pitchforks and torches isn’t enough, I do tend to just stare. Quite alarming I must imagine – they must think they’ve killed me!

I think I was just staring at him then because he stopped. My eyes raised to meet his, but nothing was said. Thankfully the bird sensed tension and intervened. A little ruffle of its feathers, just in case we had forgotten it was there. ‘Look,’ he sighed, ‘this dove. It’s more than what it seems. It is here as insurance that I will be here more. That I will…’ And there he was again going on and on and on. Tuning in to the rest of that sentence would’ve practically been picking which shoes match my casket. So how does one care for a bird anyway? I’m quite sure I have no idea. I clearly cannot bear to care for my own child, let alone some delicate little thing he thrust my way. How should one keep it fed? Keep it well groomed? And I’m quite sure it won’t live long enough to make my efforts worthwhile. Perhaps he believed that its death would encourage me to speed mine along. But see that is rather comedic. And my son never really was that interesting of a character.

Do you suppose that makes me cruel? A bad mother? Is it my fault that I could never stand to pretend like he possessed a smidge of charm? Such a dreary boy. The living embodiment of grey. I am not ashamed to say he is the reason I have only one child. A traumatising experience such as having to mother him will scar one deeply. I do wish he hadn’t come. He and his dove are making me feel more incompetent each moment they tower over me.

‘Mother!’ He barked. I noted that finally, he had shown some enthusiasm. Good on him. ‘Would you at least look me in the eye?’ I informed him of course, that he himself had brought the distraction. That bird would not stop leering. And then he was sighing again. Rubbing his temples. As if he had been taxed somehow. Always a weak one. ‘Mother there is no bird. And don’t bother explaining to me how you’ve cooked this one up this time.’ Oh yes, now I remember.

No bird. Silly me. Losing my touch. He had said that he wanted something. Something new in our relationship. Always preaching that one. And yet never a spot of colour in all that talk. His mention of a dove had merely been some short falling attempt to sound educated. Some metaphoric reference. I suppose I had been trying to add some interest to his presence by inserting the little beastie into the scene. But I suppose now that it was gone, shattered by his crass infatuation with ‘reality’, `I did rather miss it. Apt I suppose as I now realised letting him into my thought pandemonium had caused his hurried exit. Perhaps the varmint meant something to me too. Perhaps I had wanted it, and whatever it had symbolised to him to stay awhile. Yes, affirmed by the taste of brine it appears that was the case. Oh, do come back sweet beastie. I may have mocked your beauty and your grace, and the uplifting air on which you glide; but upon having tasted such a sweet breeze I would like to gaze upon you again. I would learn how to care for you. The cost of your upkeep would be no matter. And perhaps upon further inspection, you were never a creature at all. Perhaps you were my boy. Please do forgive me. I will learn to care for you. You are just as beautiful as that gifted dove. How did I ever forget which one of you was real?