Dove number 99

Last night I set one last dove free. There are no more. The bird cage on top of the apartments is now empty. I can't help but continue to ponder about last night's bird. The patterns of this bird were unlike any I've seen before. The turns, dips, and swooping motions were so precise, so carefully executed by the dove. I was left with only one interpretation which I have never before come across. As I recorded down the significance of every turn and flap of the dove, I was left with only one understanding. Usually, the dove's movements leave me with an understanding of how I can intervene-how I can help change one small event that will change the rest of someone's life forever. But this time....this time was different. As I released the last bird, number 99, I didn't even snap a picture to remember her by. For some reason, I sensed a feeling of finality...I sensed Death. But the bird didn't fight it's release. She just stepped right onto my finger with an innocent confidence. Never scared, she was. She was a seer too, and for that, this dove understood fate. Her motions told me so. She flew on into the horizon, dancing out her fate, revealing every last breathe to me-when, where, how. And as the dove flew off into the distance, past the city sky line, the rain came. It came harder than ever before. The sky gray, the only light left was the glowing white dove that illuminated the air around. As the dove flew farther and farther, the dove's illuminating light grew dimmer.. until finally, the light from the dove, like a lone candle, flickered out. She was gone, and soon I knew the woman would be too.

That man is someone else's

Hearing sirens blasting as an ambulance or police car speeds down the street is nothing special in this city. But when the ambulance parks out front of Jupiter apartments and the next thing I know a crew of EMT's are rushing into the apartment down the hall from me, I became alarmed. My curiosity and worry got the best of me, so I slipped into the buzzing hallway. Fanny Mae, the woman living in the apartment which was causing so much excitement, was frantically explaining exactly what happened to the policeman who had just arrived. Her clothes soaked in blood

Her sentences spewed out of her mouth so quickly they could hardly be differentiated. "I don't know what happened.I just came back to my apartment and he was angry and drunk and he started to hit me and I tried to push him away but he wouldn't stop and next thing I know it that he' sprawled out on the floor and he wouldn't respond to me. And there was blood... Oh gosh. So much blood. Oh no. Is he dead? "

The policeman said some comforting words about the man's condition and continued on with further questions...

Fanny responded, " Well, he's my husband but we have been split up for awhile. He just came back into town. I hadn't seen him for so long, and I think he had been drinking....actually I know he had been drinking... a lot. But I was used to that. After all, that was the reason we had split up in the first place. So i didn't think much of it when he showed up drunk at my apartment. But I guess when I let he kept drinking a lot more. I mean, he was just out of control when I come.I was scared for my life. It all happened so fast. And when I tried to find a pulse....Oh gosh. I'm so scared...."

As soon as I heard her talking about the man being a drunk, my heart dropped. I felt for her.I tried to suppress and fight off the old memories that shot to the front of my mind. Violence. Fear. The smell. I pushed them to the back of my mind where they belonged. I just couldn't deal with seeing Fanny Mae all hysterical and distraught because of her husband's stupid decisions as a drunk. This wasn't her fault. She was just trying to defend herself, whatever happened she had reason to do it. I remember seeing my mom all distraught over my dad( "That Man" as i often refer to him) when he was the one being the violent jerk. My mom in that same position...I don't ever want to see anyone feel manipulated by loving a drunk again. And now, this man had done the some thing to sweet little Fanny Mae. 

This man was just as despicable as That Man. I saw the stretcher coming towards me as I continued to stand in the threshold of my apartment door. The EMT's rushed the stretcher towards me and Fanny Mae began to cry harder as she saw the limp body of her husband sprawled out across the stretcher covered in blood. And as the stretcher was hurriedly rushed in my direction, my heart skipped a beat. I had to take a second look...the man looked familiar... (closer). Maybe I have seen him with Fanny Mae before...(closer) Wait, I definitely have seen this man before, but....(closer). OH MY GOSH!! THIS MAN IS THAT MAN. THIS MAN IS MY FATHER!!!WHAT WAS MY FATHER DOING ON THAT STRETCHER, CAUSE THAT WOULD MEAN...that would mean...that would mean that Fanny Mae's husband, the drunk jerk, is also my father. This man causing all that hurt to Fanny Mae is MY FATHER. The man that was now stabbed, covered in his own blood. What??!!!HOW COULD THIS BE....ooooohhhhhhhhh, that's why my I saw "That Man" back in town sitting in the bar the other day.  Now it all makes sense. And now my birth father was being carried away on a stretcher because he's still a drunk mess. Still causing more women pain. Still with his violet temperament. I remember those nights I would fear for my life, for my mom's life. I had put the past behind me for the most part. Up until now that is. As soon as the EMTs all had made it down the hall and out of the building, the hall returned to its quiet hum from the air vents. But Fanny Mae's sobs and gasps for air resonated. The policeman stood there quickly, giving FannyMae her space. I took a deep breath, stepped out of the threshold and towards Fanny Mae. Nothing could prepare her for what was coming.

That man

It was him. I know it. Sitting right there in the window at the bar slugging away at another beer looking just at grungy, just as evil as ever. God, he hasn't changed. I could never forget those dark drown eyes iced over with the drunken stare. The eyes that never once showed a sign of empathy or care when his big, painful hand drew back for one more swing at my mother. HE DISGUSTS ME. I hate that man. He doesn't even DESERVE a name. He doesn't earn the right to be called my father. But that is what he used to call himself. " My Father,"as if that made him ruler of all. Now he sits, waisting away in that stupid stool. HE DOESN"T BELONG HERE. He came back to MY town. I will not share anything in my life with that man ever again, especially not my town. URGG! I hate him. Just sitting, pretending he's a real man sipping away at the bar, talking to the ladies. BUT NO! A real man knows how to love and take responsibility. A real man wouldn't be a drunk.

Now, if I go back by there tomorrow and see that he is still in this town....No. Wait. I don't even want to think about it. Let's just hope that man is again gone from this city and gone forever. Otherwise, more that just that man on the roof will be singing out for Jesus.

That man is not my father and never will be. Luckily, I have Ronald. He's like a real father to me. Ronald may not live with me and I don't really see him much, but Ronald is a real man. Not that man sitting in the bar window. HE'S PITIFUL!

Just thinking...

Big cement trucks, drills, people, orange caution cones everywhere… just sitting outside my apartment buildings trying to think and sort out my brain, but I can’t turn my attention away from the construction work filling the streets. Just look at these people working away with such monotonous movements. These guys had been out there every day for the past week, and little by little, the new payment stretches farther and farther. These workers almost seem liked busy little bees. Just think. Of all the things to do in the world, these workers get up early every morning, come to this construction site, and work away, walking back and forth and back and forth. Truck to sidewalk. Truck to sidewalk. And for what? Fixing these bumps in a silly little road? Sometimes I wonder what the point of life is. Everyday I do these little things that I think are building something in my life, but maybe there’s no real purpose behind all these motions. Maybe I look like a construction worker with a silly little hat on, busy with the repetitious little tasks of making a longer road.

Humph…I mean, everyday I go on that roof top and watch the doves…thinking I’m doing what I’m destined to do…watch the doves, find the person, help the person, and do it all again…thinking this is my purpose in life. But what if just one day I didn’t go? What if I didn’t try to intervene, in my own little ways, and change the course of the people’s lives that I’m suppose to help fix? After all, I don’t even know if I really help them. I just assume. I don’t follow them around after my intervention asking “Is your life better now?” It’s kinda like that nice lady down at the pub, Tara, I think her name is. I walk by and look through the windows fairly often. She’s always doing her routine. Walking back and forth from the tables to the kitchen, tables to kitchen. Brings full plates. Takes away empty plates. Oh God, why am I here? Am I really doing anything of any importance? I sure hope so. But in the mean time, I guess I’ll just keep doing my job. Oh, and try to be a kid too.

Bruises

Mom avoided people seeing her cry at any cost. Most of the time she would rock herself to sleep through silent cries. She had no one but me, and what did I do for her? I loved her with all of my heart and tried to be a good kid-always cleaning up and never complaining about my torn blanket or clothes that I’ve outgrown. So beyond showing her love, I felt helpless when she arrived home crying.

Bruises covered her entire arm. Immediately the internal alarms that every female innately has shook my insides. I was as far from a mother as Jerry, the stupid 7-year-old kid down the hall whose always pulling the fire alarm just for kicks, but the protective motherly instincts that I did have sprung out. I sat my mom down on the couch and stoked her dark hair as the tears flooded her eyes.

Mom blamed the fresh bruises on the numerous ice patches left over from the snowstorm. She claimed that she slipped on her way home from her job at the diner, but as soon as this left her quivering lips, I knew it just wasn’t the truth. But for her sake, I pretended to believe her. I had some different explanations in mind.

After my mom calmed down a little more, I grabbed my jacket and marched out of the apartment with my anger boiling. No one would treat mom like this. NO ONE. I thought this problem was over after Mom kicked dad out, but I was wrong. And I had to stop this now. My deep suspicion of the real source of those bruises propelled me down the stairs, through the doors, and across the street. But wait, it might be too late at night. I asked a woman passing. Her sweater smelled strongly of smoke and spilled beer, but she had a watch on. However when she couldn’t give me the time cause her watch was broken, I decided to turn back around and head back home. After all I had no real plan. What was I, a small little girl, gonna really be able to do. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t do anything about this by myself. I needed a plan. I had made a promise to myself that I would never let anyone treat mom like my father did, and I sure was going to live up to this promise. I just needed a plan...

Unkowing Stranger, #13

It was 4:07 real time, and I had only ten minutes to get to the bus stop that was right outside the Sunshine Daycare. It should have been only a short walk from my apartment, but I seemed to be walking backwards as the blistering wind pounded upon my little body.
The snow poured down, blurring my vision as the flakes grasped onto the curls of my lashes. I was amazed at the ease at which a guide dog navigated a blind man through the snow covered ground and snow filled air. They passed me heading in the same direction, and I was inclined to grab onto the dog’s harness as the falling snow thickened.
However, I somehow managed to trudge through the snow and reach the bus stop on my own just in time. 4:15. I had two more minutes. I took the purple bag off of my shoulder, took out the journal, and quickly read through the notes about yesterday’s dove. Yup. This was right. The public bus would soon be coming from the south down Rouse Blvd. Now the only question that remained was who the mystery person would be today that I was suppose to help. Who was the unknowing stranger today? Who would be the 13th person? But I didn’t worry about not already knowing who the person was. For the previous 12 people, I didn’t realize who they were until the exact instance of occurrence. When I see them, I just know it's them. I know that that particular person is who I must help. It’s just an instinct. A gift. All I had to make sure I looked out for at the moment was the bus, which I soon heard rumbling up the hill from the right. I could barely see it through the pouring snow. 4:16. My heart pounded. The bus stopped right in front of me. The doors opened giving off that noise that sounded like a spit of air. The bus driver stared at me. I stared back and didn’t move.
“You getting on or what, little girl?” the bus driver said impatiently.
I just stood there. “Umm, Umm…” I had to stall, but I didn’t yet know who I was stalling for. I glanced down at my watch. 4:17. Deep breath. I anxiously looked the sidewalk up and down. No one. The bus driver looked at me angrily as he was getting behind schedule by waiting for me. He reached for the door lever to close the doors.
I put my foot in the way of the door. “You have to stay. Just one second. PLEEEEEASE! Someone really needs to catch this bus,” I said desperately to the impatient driver. There was only one way this was suppose to play out, and the bus was NOT suppose to leave YET. Then I heard her. I looked over my shoulder. The door to the Sunshine Daycare flew open, and a woman came running out with a baby in her arms tightly bundled beneath several layers and hollered at the bus. She looked so relieved as she quickly hopped onto the bus.
“I thought for sure I had already missed it,” she said frazzled and out of breath to the bus driver.” Thank you so much for waiting, Driver.”
“It sure wasn’t my idea to get behind schedule,” he grumpily said as he motioned towards me.
The doors closed, and I watched the bus drive away as the woman found her seat in the back. That woman had no idea how catching that bus just changed her entire life. But I knew. I knew everything. The dove’s flight pattern had told it all, and once again, I found myself in the right place at the right time. This was her fate. This was her destiny. And I only played a very small part in her very big plan. I felt a sense of nastalgia as the bus disappeared into the distance. I would probably never see that woman again, but that was what the picture was for. The picture of the dove was my way of remembering her and all the others.
That night I returned back to the roof top of Jupiter Apartments, carefully avoiding stepping on any of the many cockroaches scurrying up the stairs. The freezing cold was no excuse to miss releasing another dove. After all, I was dealing with fate. I had to learn the fate of another unknowing stranger. This time, number 14. As I released the dove and began to take notes on its flight pattern, the entire city went black. No lights- only the white of the falling snow, the red and violet sunset, and the shadow of the dove disappearing into the horizon.

Dove, #13

I quickly threw down the money onto the counter, grabbed the off-brand black and yellow disposable camera without even waiting for the clerk to place it in a bag, and ran the three blocks home. I had to hurry because it would be getting dark soon. And I just had to get to the roof top when there was still daylight lingering in the horizon.
Running those 3 blocks from the local pharmacy back home to Jupiter Apartments was like going to the bathroom in the middle of the night- a routine so familiar, I could walk it half asleep. I soared through the apartment doors leaving the cold air sealed outside where it belonged, skipped up the six flights of stairs, and rounded the corners of the mildew smelling hallways until I reached the one and only red apartment door, number 611.
Swinging open the door didn’t even manage to slow my cadence-much thanks to the broken lock.With one step through the treshold of the door, I was dumped smack dab into the middle of our apartment; I didn’t even have to announce myself to Mom as the apartment basically only had one room. The same moment I swung open the door, Mom, sitting across the living room with the dinner table set, grinned. I glanced up at the clock on the wall behind her. 5:30 on the dot.
“Hey bumblebee. Right in time for dinner I see. Another minute and I would have been worrying. You know how much I worry about letting such a young girl run around town, like I’m not a good parent or something. But you are here on time as always, angel, so let’s eat,” mom said placing a generously portioned plate on our ever-so-elegant card table which we prefer to refer to as our dinning table. The source of the delicious smelling garlic aroma that filled our tiny apartment was sitting there staring at me. Mmm... pasta, my favorite.
I glanced out the window and could see the sun quickly lowering, so I gobbled down the rest of my plate, quickly helped my mom hand wash the dinner plates, and ran to my room. Yes, I did have my own room. At that point, my love-hate relationship with my room was currently on the loving part. I had previously hated my room because my mom wouldn’t take it for herself. She made the living room, which was also our dinning room and kitchen, into her own room by sleeping on the couch and adding a small dresser. She gave me my own room because she loved me so much and wanted to give me what she could, and I knew that it would have hurt her to see me without even a room. So I learned to love my room. It was a world just for me. I could play with my dolls for hours and hours, but as always, the night time was for bigger and better things to do than just play my childish games.
As always, after dinner I needed just a few moments of privacy to pack up my little purple bag which I kept safely tucked away under my bed. Naturally, I slipped in a journal, pen, watch(never reading real time), and the unused disposable camera. Zipping it up tightly, I flung the purple bag over my small shoulder and headed out. I didn’t even have to tell Mom where I was headed. She knew that every night I always walked up the 7 flights of stairs to the roof top exit. But Mom never did know exactly why I went to the roof. I guess she just assumed I liked the view, which was not all wrong. I mean, yes I could see most of the town from the top of all 13 stories of Jupiter Apartments, but the town view was hardly of importance.
Out on the roof top, the chill of the wind was prevalent. Luckily my body was used to the 7 story climb, so at least I wasn’t cold and out of breath. I set my bag down and took out its contents. I looked up and there it was- the large metal bird cage.
The cooing doves inside started flapping around to greet me. It was time. The sun shone low across horizon, the city streets buzzing, I opened the small door to the bird cage. The doves rustled around until the chosen one stepped forward. I put my finger out, and the white dove gently and confidently climbed on. After snapping a picture of the dove that I would later pin up on my bulletin board along side the pictures of the first 12 doves, together we walked over towards the edge of the building. Good thing I had never developed a fear of heights, but I assume that doing this same routine day after day would get me over any such fear.
My eyes traced over the dove's body once more, studying the curves of its body and feathers. I took once last glance into its yellowish eyes and then swung my finger upward to give the dove momentum for take-off. Its winds spread and began flapping off into the distance. I picked up my journal and pen from beside me. Studying every movement of the dove, every slight turn, every drop, and motion, I noted everything. I couldn’t get any detail wrong. Each precise movement was telling of a specific detail. I never was scared, but always confident and curious in my note taking ability. Afterall, every detail I noted was precious, imperative for understanding, and so far I had never been wrong.
As the bird disappeared into the dwindling red and violet light of the horizon, I checked my watch showing the inncorrect time, noting the exact time of its disappearance. 4:17.I packed up my little purple bag, walked back to my room, and could only wait until the events would unravel the following day. I could only wait until my notes in my journal came alive by some unknowing stranger.