The call of the mourning dove pierces her deeply. She hears it as she lays in bed, the sweet sad notes plucking at the wounds, slicing through the skin of silence she’s wrapped around herself. It takes her back beneath the tall trees, with bees buzzing around blossoms, and borrowed words being read aloud, and a chest to rest her head on. It pries her open and sings its song into her veins, pumping into her heart, threatening to explode.
She drives so she doesn’t have to hear the doves. She goes and she goes but she can’t get away because there are too many green jeeps. Ghosts on wheels, they haunt her on the streets, taunt her as they bounce along, tops down, their license plates a scramble that she’s afraid to recognize. Unable to resist, she speeds up and slides alongside them, peering inside twice, three times, just to make sure.
They aren’t you. She hopes and she fears that they never will be. You can’t exist in her world, on her streets. She killed what you were to her and now you’re dead and all these green jeeps are only filled with phantoms, whispering words she doesn’t want to hear.
She pulls the silence closer and wraps it around her mind, blocking out the whispers and all the words inside, drowning them before they can surface. Like this she continues to drive along, endlessly, slowly suffocating in her coffin of silence.
I watch the dove perched on the wire, tail dipping and bobbing against the clear sky. The notes of its song swim through waves of words, cresting in my mind, reminding me just how lucky I am not to be her.