Coo D'état

There was a dove in the rafters the morning Stella collapsed on the lanai, glass pipe clattering out the screen door and into the oxalis.

CooOOoo-woo-woo-woooo

It was there again, on the window ledge of the second floor CCU, when my Cora lost her battle against paraganglioma.

CooOOoo-woo-woo-woooo

And the mourning dove is here perched on the mantle betwixt the two urns as I sip bourbon and struggle to light a cigarette. But he doesn’t coo. He scowls, cigar clamped tight in his beak, wingtips drumming impatiently.

“Don’t worry, bird.” I laugh, shaking oxycodone into a shaking palm, “I’ll be dead soon enough.”

He adjusts his newsboy cap and stands. I rise to my own feet, step forward to confront him, slip on a pill bottle and strike my head on the hearth. As blood gushes from my temple and things go black around the edges, his wings spread.

CooOOoo-woo-woo-woooo