March 28, 2025

Mourning Doves

On lament.

There’s a pair that perch somewhere along the eaves. Each morning, when I open the door, they burst out from wherever they were hiding—all of us taken by surprise. My husband told me it’s their wings that whistle when they fly, their feathers beating against the air.

I used to think, for so long, that it was morning. I guess I never heard the sadness in their birdsongs, but now I wonder whose grief they’re calling for.

With my son in his stroller on our evening walk, I’ll ask if he can hear them coo. Every day now, he learns more and more about the world.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.