The Mourning Dove Cries For Me – christinelind.com
Ava Harrison submitted a poem in her creative writing class in the spring of 1971.
***
Ava Harrison
Prof. James Thompson/Poetry Class
April 2, 1971
THE MOURNING DOVE CRIES FOR ME
As I rest my chin upon the windowsill of
my second-story bedroom, I feel safe. It is the only place that is mine. For
some reason, I am safe, here, looking out the window.
The window overlooks a park. Miller Park
is its name, with its birch trees and large oaks. I don’t know any of the trees
by name because I can’t retain anything I learn; unless, of course, I am the
child that learned it in the first place. But it doesn’t make any difference. I
just enjoy them, the trees. But mostly, I see the birds in the trees. In a
stifling environment of suppressed feelings, I learn to feel when I watch the
birds. I feel when they fly.
There is one bird, though, that stands out
above all the others. Not for its looks, or the way it flies, but for its song.
Oh, sure, there are others that sing. There has to be. There are robins, wrens,
and chickadees, to name a few. But I only hear the mourning dove. She has a
sing-song kind of tune, and she can lull you to sleep, in a mournful sort of
way. I don’t know it by its looks; I just know she comforts me. She must know
what I’m going through, how uncanny of her.
So, every day, I steal away, up to the
window of my second story bedroom, where I am safe. A place I call mine. And then she comes, the mourning dove comes, and she
cries for me.
***
Veteran’s Home 2009
“He began with you, Ava, and now he
can end with you.” The voice of my aunt drips with righteous indignation. “You
never know,” she continues, “whose gonna give you your last glass of water.”
With my cell phone tucked under my chin, Auntie
drones on over the irony of the situation while I nudge the metal door opener with
my elbow. Jostling my purse, a Sears bag of new men’s underwear, and a folder of
my dad’s military papers, I hang up from my aunt and
wait for the automatic doors to yawn open.
As I enter the two-story atrium of this newly
built veteran’s home, it boasts a vaulted ceiling and stone fireplace. Iconic images
representing the military branches are displayed behind glass partitions
inviting more of a museum like atmosphere than a nursing home. I’m greeted by a massive
circular desk where an elderly woman manning phones motions for me to sign in. And that familiar smell? Well, there is
none—only the aroma of roasted coffee beans beckoning from the gift shop. After
finding the perfect spot on my blouse for the sticky visitor tag, I make a
beeline for a large brown leather wingback and wait for my father’s transport
van to arrive.
With nothing else to do but stare at the
walls, I notice they’re also decorated with military memorabilia and artifacts.
I try to relax and compose myself for what’s ahead. I never knew my dad served
in the military, let alone a warship. His naval papers report a Merchant
Marine, a machinist with
an honorable discharge. You’d think I’d feel proud or patriotic; but I don’t
feel anything—except maybe surreal, perched in a chair waiting to reunite with
my father after many years with a fighter plane hanging over my head.
To my surprise, I see a doddering old man
shuffling toward me. He’s behind a walker, pushing-walking, pushing-walking,
his eyes set on me. Watching him persevere, I realize I’m the object of his
fortitude: “Hi there, young lady,” he announces. He’s clergy of some
kind, with clerical collar, topped off with a well-worn baseball cap with a red
cardinal embroidered on the rim.
“Hello,” I say back.
“I haven’t seen brown eyes like yours
since my time in Italy,” the old man explains, “in double-u, double-u
two. Say, do you have time to marry me? I got a half-hour before lunch, and you
don’t look like you’re doin’ anything.”
The twinkle in his eye tells me it’s all
in fun. “Well, let me see, I’m
waiting for my father to arrive, but as soon as I get him settled in his room,
I’ll be happy to marry you. Can you wait till the afternoon?”
“Why, this works out great, you
waitin’ for your father and all. I can ask him for your hand.” He braces
himself against his walker. “You Italian? I met my wife while stationed in
Rome. She’s with Jesus now. I miss her. I miss her eyes.” He brings
himself back from his memories. “See you after lunch, now, and don’t stand
me up!”
“I won’t,” I promise. As I watch
him maneuver his way over to the dining hall, he salutes a row of veterans in
full regalia parked in front of a bird aquarium nodding off in their
wheelchairs.
A voice echoes overhead: “Will Ava
Thompson, please come to the receiving desk.”
I return to the massive counter. “I’m
Ava Thompson.”
“We received a call from Montclair Nursing
Home regarding Sam Harrison?” The woman looks up over her glasses at me. “Are
you his daughter?”
“Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” she says,
glancing at her notepad. “Your father will be an hour late.”
“Did they say why?”
“Just that he’ll arrive closer to one
o’clock. I’ll let Linda know, she’s the intake coordinator.”
I follow my nose to the gift shop. “Your
coffee of the day, please.” A teenage
girl donning a long apron tells me to help myself around the corner. An old
black and white war movie plays on a flat screen above the coffee bar. John
Wayne’s character is lighting a woman’s cigarette as she holds it to her lips.
I can almost smell the cigarette smoke as it wafts up around their faces. They
both take long drags and gaze into each other’s eyes. The woman tilts her head
back and blows a stream of smoke into the air. My coffee taste bitter.
My
phone rattles inside my purse—it’s my sister, Maureen.
“Hey.”
“Are you with Dad?”
“No, he’s not here yet.”
“Isn’t he supposed to be there by
now?”
“Yes, but Montclair called and said
he’d be an hour late.”
“Good grief, Ava—just leave. You
filled out the paperwork—that’s more than enough.”
“I know, but I’m here now, and it’s
what I want. He knows I’m the one meeting him, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,
it was the last thing I said to him before I lost it. Hey, on the upside, I
wanted to remind you of the family picnic next month. You’ve missed so
many.”
“Jim and I can’t wait. Can we bring
the boys home with us? They asked at the funeral.”
“Teenage boys? You’re brave …”
“We’d love it …”
“You know, Ava, none of us had any
idea—but after reading Mom’s journals, we understand why you stayed away. Beth
and I were too busy playing Barbies, I guess—Dad’s read them, you know.”
“He has?”
“He knows you told Mom about the garage
thing. I can’t even imagine Ava—you were so young.”
“You know, Maureen, it’s not just
what Dad did …”
“Hey, Ava, before I forget,
congratulations on getting your poems published.”
“Oh! Thank you—pretty cool,
huh?”
“Very cool, better let you go—love
you, and call me when you get out of there.”
How nice of her to check on me. I never
wanted to be apart from my sisters, let alone my parents. I check the time and
look around. A library, a coffee shop—it’ll be nice visiting him here. I’ll
explain, and everything will be all right. He can’t live the rest of his life
alone, that I’m sure of. I know my sisters will come around.
An entire family comes through the main
entrance, interrupting my thoughts. Leading the way in a motorized wheelchair
is a man in uniform loaded down with medals, a large bird cage on his lap. A
woman attendant is walking with them. She looks my way and spots my name tag.
“Oh, hey, I’m looking for you! Your father just arrived.”
“You must be Linda,” I say, shaking
her hand.
“That be me,” she replies.
“They had problems with the lift, but he’s here now. I was just about to
page you.”
“Where’s he at?” I ask, looking
around.
“Down this way,” she says,
leading the way. Guessing her to be in her thirties, we walk in step down a
hall, her pony tail swinging back and forth as she walks. “He’s parked at the
curb,” she continues, “transport vans come to the east entrance down here,
that way we can use a dolly for their luggage and things.”
The van’s lift is lowering my father in
his wheelchair onto the sidewalk. He looks comical in this heat sporting a faux
leather bomber jacket and VFW hat. Seeing him at the funeral prepares me for
the change in his looks.
“I heard your mother died last month,”
Linda says, leaning close to me. “We’ll watch him carefully. The nurse
practitioner will give him a thorough evaluation; we’ll keep you updated on any
meds.”
“My mother’s heart attack surprised all of
us.”
“We’re placing your father in a hospital
room till an apartment is available. So sorry for the mix-up.”
“What mix-up? My father doesn’t have his
own apartment?”
“I’m so sorry. I thought they told you!
Your father will move up on the waiting list like before, he’s still next in
line after the death of one of our vets—as you know this is their home till that
time. But someone didn’t follow protocol—jumped the gun; and your father is back
on the waiting list. One of our vets, sweet man—chaplain during the war—was diagnosed
… “
“I think I met him! Does my dad know all
about this?”
“Oh, of course, we gave him the option to
stay at Montclair—but he wanted to come now.”
“This may sound cold, but will my father
be waiting long? I mean, does this man, can you tell me …”
“He has kidney failure.”
We both
approach my dad left waiting on the sidewalk.
“Well, if it isn’t the poet,” he says, breaking the ice.
“Hello, Dad.”
“How old are you now? Let’s see, you
were in college last time I remember. That’s a real long education. You must
have a million degrees by now.”
“Not now,
Dad, please.”
“You still shackin’ up with that
professor?” The transport attendant is lifting his legs onto the foot
rests of his wheelchair ignoring the tension between us.
“Professor Thompson and I are still
together, if that’s what you mean.”
“Okay, Sam,” Linda interrupts us, “let’s
get you settled into your new home.”
I follow them back into the building as
she pushes my dad in his wheelchair down endless halls. My once
movie-star-handsome father, who flirted with anything in a skirt, is now a joke
to his reputation. His looks are still there, but the wheelchair and oxygen
tubes up his nose tell you his Don Juan days are over.
When we get to the room, Linda squats down
beside my father’s wheelchair and pats his arm. “Welcome home, Sam. Are
you hungry? It’s lunch time.”
“Yeah, I’m hungry,” he says. He
sizes her up and down to see if she’s worth looking at as she leaves the room.
“I see your sisters are keeping their
promise,” he says.
“Your affairs caused a lot of pain in
our family.”
“Well, apparently, you didn’t like
it.” My father throws his hat on the bed. “But staying away only made your
mother suffer.”
“Mom,
suffer? The day I found you and that woman in the garage is the day my relationship
with Mom ended. I found a pack of Marlboro’s in the driveway. I went
looking for you in the garage to give them to
you.”
“I
think it’s time for you to leave.”
“Mom
hated me after that.”
Dad laughs. “Hated you?”
“She never said anything, but I could feel it.
I never understood it until I was older. She blamed me, Dad.”
“What
do you want from me?”
“After
college, Dad—it wasn’t because of you I disappeared. Mom told me to never come
back.”
“Well,
isn’t that rich.”
“Why
didn’t you tell me not to tell her, Dad? You saw me, didn’t you? You should’ve
stopped me, run after me, anything. I was a little girl; I didn’t know any
better.”
“You didn’t know any better? You mean to
tell me you’re blaming me because you’re a little tattletale?” A barn swallow
flutters outside the window.
“Don’t, Dad.”
“Why do you think I had affairs? So, you got the cold
shoulder, did you? From the ice lady?”
Knock, knock, anybody hungry?” Linda
comes in with Dad’s lunch. “Here you go, Sam. I’ll just sit it down here
on the table for you. Can I bring you a tray, Ava?”
“No—no thank you, Linda. I’m—I’m
leaving now. Do I give you Dad’s papers?”
“Just leave them on the table,” she tells
me. “I’m going to lunch myself; I’ll be back to get them later.” I watch her
pony tail swing back and forth as she leaves the room.
“Did Maureen tell you to bring me some
underwear?” my dad asks. “I hate these damn diapers.” He rolls his
wheelchair over to the table where Linda placed his tray. I take the Sears bag
and place it in his drawer.
“Dad, I was hoping we could be a
family again. Maureen and Beth will come around, I’ll come get you for the
picnic even—if they see …”
“See what?”
“You know—that everything’s okay.”
My dad grips
the handles of his wheelchair. “I never loved your
mother,” he mocks, “I only married her because she got pregnant—with you. I did
the responsible thing, something you wouldn’t understand, it’s called a marriage
license. I saved her reputation—and yours. Only to have you sit around and
write poems with some guy never to be seen again—and now everything’s okay?”’
My dad, shift’s
his weight back and forth frustrated he can’t move. “Go
away, Ava,” he finally says. “I want you to leave.”
I leave and wait outside his door to
compose myself. Not sure how to get back to the main entrance, I begin walking
down a maze of corridors hugging the walls to steady myself. Finally,
outside, I slow down and relax a bit to get my bearings for the parking lot.
Passing a landscaped garden, I see the old chaplain sitting on a black iron
bench in the shade.
He notices me too. “Hello, young lady!”
Moving closer to him, and waving: “Well,
goodbye, it was nice meeting you.”
“Happy families are all alike”; he says, “but
every unhappy family is unhappy in his
own way.”
I can tell we’re having fun again. “Tolstoy,”
I proudly tell him.
“Oh, —there she is,” holding his hand to
his ear. “Do you hear her?”
“Uh, yes—.” I smile at him; “The mourning
dove ….”
“Did
you know in Christianity the mourning dove is a symbol of the Holy Spirit? She moans
for us when we’re too sad to speak. Some say, she’s a symbol of hope and peace—for
patience and perseverance. I think she brought reassurance to Noah, that trees would once again
grow on dry land. She comforts us, reminding us always to look for signs of life.”
I sit down next to him. “How are you
feeling?”
“I’m dying, they tell me. Maybe you will stop
in and say hello now and then?”
“Of course, I will—” I tell him. “But I
wasn’t planning …”
The old man interrupts me: “The dove came
back with nothing on his first try.”
***
One Month Later …
“He’s dressed and raring to go,” Linda
announces. “Aren’t you, Sam?” My dad manages a polite nod, while Jim and an
attendant proceed to take him out to the van.
“This picnic will be good for all of us,” I
tell Linda; “and the park is just down the street.”
“I’m glad you talked him into it.”
“He was easy compared to my sisters.”
“I have something for you.” Linda pulls out
a square gray envelope with my name on it.
“The Chaplain asked me to give this
to you after his death.”
“For me?”
“We get attached to all our vets, but he’ll
really be missed.”
I thank Linda and give her a quick hug. Settling
into the van, I turn around to check on my dad. “Are you comfortable, back
there?”
“I thought you were never coming out.”
I throw a knowing glance at Jim, and immediately
commence opening my card. On the front cover is a pencil drawing of a dove, and
on the inside—a solitary message, written in large sprawling cursive: Look for signs of life.
“Is this the park, Ava?” Jim asks.
“Yes—yes, this is it.”
We slowly pull into a designated area
filled with wooden picnic tables and grills. My family has arrived before us
and my sisters greet us waving flags in the air. My nephews pause their Frisbee
game and watch us drive onto the gravel road in front of the pavilion. Signs of
life.
Jim parks the car and glances up at the
rearview mirror. “Are you ready, Sam?”
I get out and look around. It’s beautiful,
like most parks, with large oaks and birch trees. I love the trees, but mostly
I love the birds in the trees. But there’s one bird that stands out above all
the rest. I don’t see her. I don’t even know what she looks like. But she
always knows what I’m going through. How uncanny of her. And, so she comes. The
mourning dove comes. And she cries for me.
