A dove’s call takes me on a journey back to other times and a song…

                  THOSE DAMNED DOVES.

                  Every morning when I sit out on the patio, surrounded by flowers and in the presence of Buddha, the doves start singing their way into my heart and soul. 

                  Every mournful note, which, in fact, is a mating call of sorts, pulls me back to Fife Avenue in Wilmington, Ohio. Doves are everywhere, so why there? I suppose it’s the overwhelming memories of the house my grandparents moved into in the 1920s and grew from a small house into an award-winning thing of beauty, though to use it was always just “home.”

                  It was the house where my grandmother lay in state in front of the French doors after she came home that January Saturday morning from the beauty shop and had a heart attack, then died that afternoon in the hospital she helped promote and build so folks wouldn’t have to drive to Cincinnati for care. It was where, that day, my grandfather picked up her journal and, on that date, wrote something like “the most beautiful woman died today.”

                  It was where I mowed yards, had horses, helped my grandfather recover from two strokes and spent every Christmas throughout childhood, and some beyond, with family. 

                  The doves? They were there through it all. I know there were other birds there but all I remember out back was the soft song of the dove….sad but reassuring.

                  Years later I was driving through Fort Ancient, just south of town, on my way to see my parents. I think I was coming from Texas. Time blurs. My parents were failing and I could see the end and I had a tape in the cassette. It was Bob Wills. “Faded Love” came on and talked of loss and love and eternity and the mating of the dove, and I realized I was crying. Behind the song I could hear the doves in the backyard and see everyone who ever graced the house.

                  Now, sitting on a patio alongside the courtyard of an urban apartment complex, I hear them but I hear them through memories of an old house, a backyard, people gone and a song of loss. I’m not crying this morning. Instead, I’m feeling timeless comfort. It’s good. I hope there will always be doves sharing their song and helping a boy-grown-old to remember.

Rich Heiland is a retired journalist and semi-retired consultant, trainer and public speaker. During his journalism career he was a reporter, editor, publisher, college instructor, part of a Pulitzer Prize-winning team and a National Newspaper Association Columnist of the Year honoree. He also writes the intodementia.com blog about his family’s experience with dementia. He lives in West Chester, PA and can be reached at [email protected].