The Dove by Ramnath Subramanian

Maria knocked on the glass pane of the sliding door. It was a signal to the birds that she would be coming out with their evening food.

She noticed some flutter in the leaves. The sparrows had heard her. They were always the first to swoop down from the trees to the grass.

She opened the door and stepped out with a slice of multigrain bread in one hand and a bag of birdseed in the other.

“C’mon babies,” she cooed. “Come and get your food.”

She flung the birdseed in neat arcs to reach a nice swath of the grass. Then she tore the bread into tiny pieces and flung them likewise.

“C’mon babies,” she cooed again. “Come and get your food.” Then she walked backward slowly and retreated into the house.

She closed the sliding glass door and looked at the backyard. The sparrows, two doves, five grackles, a thrasher all flew down to have their repast. The thrasher, as was his won’t, picked up a piece of bread, and perched with it on the rim of the birdbath. Then he dipped it in the water to soften it and ate it. He was the only one who followed this routine.

Maria loved her backyard. She was fond of the lemon tree that bore a lot of fruit in March and April. She had made many jars of lemon curd to spread on bread last year. Many jars of cool lemonade. And there was plenty left over to give a full grocery bag of lemons to her neighbor Lisa.

The orange tree next to it was an enigma. Even though she took good care of it, it produced only one orange each year. And it came out in the same place. Maria looked forward to that one single orange each year.

“I need to trim the juniper bush,” she said to herself.

Maria withdrew her thoughts from the backyard, walked over to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and and started to make a grocery list. At the end of a dozen or so items, she added salmon. “I’d like to make salmon creole,” she said to herself.

Outside, the day was drawing to a close. Maria took a quick look at the backyard. All the birds were gone. It was the crepuscular hour when a sudden calm settles on nature and the greying of light closes the curtain slowly on all the busy activities of the day.

It was then that Maria noticed a dove was still in the backyard. It was sitting on the grass near the birdbath. It exhibited small movements, but was mostly inert.

What is he doing here so late, she wondered. If he had come to pick up the last crumbs without competition, why wasn’t he at it picking up the remains?

The situation puzzled her. The crepuscular hour was now past. She wondered if a dove can fly in the dark. Just then, there was a flutter of wings, and the dove flew over the top of the house, and was gone.

Next day, at feeding time, she kept a lookout for the dove. She didn’t see him.

But again, when it had gotten quite dark, there he was sitting on the rim of the birdbath. She noticed that he dipped his beak in the water and took a sip. He did it again and again. She counted. Soon it was up to 50 sips. He must be really thirsty, she thought. He must not come here for the food, but the water. Poor baby. Maria kept counting. She had reached the count of 87, when she heard the flutter of wings. The mostly inert object showed surprising strength, took to the air, and flew over the roof.

He is weak, Maria thought. I will call him Gramps. But he has strength to fly. That is good. He comes here, because he likes my house. He knows I am a friend.

Nature is rough, Maria told herself. Old age is rough everywhere, but especially in nature, what can a poor bird do. Poor baby.

The next day, the dove was constantly in Maria’s thought. The previous evening, as the dove took to his wings, she had rushed over to the other side of the house to see if she could follow his flight to see where he was going. But she didn’t see him.

The second evening he had come to the house later. I don’t get it, Maria thought. I can see him coming to the house after all the birds have left. But why come so late? I wonder if he will show up even later this evening.

As it turned out, Gramps didn’t come at all. She waited and waited, and even turned the porch light on. But there was no sign of him

The clouds had rolled in, bringing relief to the desert heat. That was good news for Gramps. I wonder from where he got his water.

With night came a thunderstorm of great fury. Streaks of lightning raced across the sky. And it poured. The sound of the rain lulled Maria to sleep.

The next day was a perfect September day. Temperature in the low 90s. A cool breeze washed over everything in the open.

Maria opened the sliding door and stepped into the backyard. She was determined to get the juniper pruned this morning. She got the clipper and step stool and moved towards the tree.

She stopped in her tracks.. Right on a tuft of grass right next to the birdbath was the inert body of Gramps. He was curled up in eternal sleep.

The rain, thought Maria. That violent downpour. Poor baby. All alone in the dark, with nothing but the rain to guide him to his next place. A baptism. The suffering of this world was over.