It was the Fourth of July. We were all there — Beth, in from California. Jen was there with Cerulean. Me and Matthew with our kids. Even Mom.
When we rounded the corner and he saw all of us, his whole face opened — Oh, look at this!
Dad led us down the path to his favorite shady spot, overlooking the river, under the wide welcoming canopy of an old dogwood tree. We pulled lawn chairs from the tables scattered around the lawn and arranged them in a loose circle. It was a perfect day. Not too hot. The river alive with barges and small boats. Wild birds flitting around — pecking at the lawn, flying up to the branches of the trees.
We’d been there maybe an hour when Dad said, “There’s this bird.”
He’d been coming outside in the early mornings, he told us, when no one else was around and the animals were more willing to come close. “I like to watch them,” he said. “They remind me of people.” He pointed out a robin. “Doesn’t it kind of look like someone?” We laughed, naming the resemblances to people we knew, celebrities, old friends.
“But there’s this one pigeon,” Dad said. “Follows me around. Hops along. Comes back, comes back. Yesterday it sat there so long I finally asked it — what do you want?”
He paused.
“All the other pigeons are that gray and blue color. This one’s all white.”
Beth raised an eyebrow at me.
A few days earlier, I’d driven out alone to tell him two things: that we were coming for the Fourth of July, and that his brother David had died on June 25th. Dad was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded, slowly. “I’ve been thinking about David,” he said. “I was thinking about the last time I spoke with him. Now, I’ll never get to talk with him again.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. He nodded. We sat quietly together for a few minutes.
Now, the family all gathered around, Beth asked, “So, Dad. Does the white pigeon remind you of anyone?”
He looked at her. “Should it?”
“Anyone you know,” I said, “have anything to do with pigeons?”
His face changed. “Oh,” he said. “David.” He shook his head slowly, smiling. “Wow.”
We sat with that for a moment. “I was thinking about him…” he said. “Wow.”
It was months later when I thought of the white pigeon and asked Dad, “Hey, did that white pigeon come back?”
“No,” he said. “After that day on the lawn, it didn’t come back.”
He paused.
“It didn’t have to.”
This is a scene from The End of Men, a book about my Dad and me.
Previous: First Thanksgiving
Next: Peach Melba
Scene Index: here.
Want to support the work? Leave a comment. Share a chapter with a friend. To receive the scenes by email, subscribe here. Paid subscribers get workshops at School of Magic.
Wow. Who is David?
This is one of faves. ❤️