White Story Doves

5

Now, a set of white doves are sitting on our balcony, looking at me in that funny way only doves do, moving their tiny heads from one side to another. I stare right back at them.

“Hello”, I whisper, “Can you tell me what happened at our house that summer day in 1953?” I smile. “You could if you were Persian Story Doves. But you are not from the stories. You are just doves.” I smile. “You could if you were Persian Story Doves. But you are just doves,” I say to myself. “You can’t even understand me, which is fair since I can’t understand you either.”

“A long, long time ago, when people were still good and kind, they were able to understand the language of animals,” my grandmother would tell us whenever she told stories, not as often as Ezy.

“But I guess the world is now changed and is filled with bad people who are not good enough to understand your tongue,” I say to the doves.