August 2024 Short Story of the Month

---

The day the pigeon moved in was the best and worst day of my life. Crazy, right? But it’s true. I love that pigeon. Let me start from the beginning so you can judge for yourself.

****

That fateful day, I woke with a knot in my stomach. I opened my eyes slowly, dreading the idea of starting the day.

Today was the day of my mother’s funeral. I didn’t want to go, not because I didn’t care for her, but for the opposite reason. In my mind, if I went to her funeral, I was acknowledging her death. I was definitely in denial. If I didn’t agree to it, it wasn’t real.

But that’s not how death works. We all know it, but till we’re faced with the death of someone we can’t live without, we don’t feel it. I couldn’t accept it. I wouldn’t.

I lay there for all of three minutes before my sister, who was staying with me until after the funeral, came into my room to get me out of bed.

“Come on. I made some coffee,” Cynthia said right before she yanked the covers off of me.

Even in our forties, she still acted like she was the boss of me. I sighed as loud as I could. It sounded more like a growl.

“Tell me about it,” Cynthia said, plopping onto the end of the bed with the comforter balled up in her arms. She hugged it and sighed too.

“I don’t want to do today. Can it just be tomorrow already?” I asked, flinging my arm over my face and closing my eyes again.

“If only,” agreed Cynthia.

We were silent for a long time. I could hear birds chirping outside and the sound of the dishwasher running downstairs.

I indulged one more sigh / growl. I made myself get out of bed. That’s how everything felt that morning. I had to tell myself what the next thing I needed to do was and force my body to comply. The worst part was choosing clothes for the funeral. I stood in my walk-in closet and looked at all my brightly colored and very inappropriate for a funeral clothes. I was still standing there wearing nothing but my bra and underwear when Cynthia came looking for me again.

She looked at me standing there and looked at my closet. She made a face. “Do you own anything in black?” She started pulling clothes around and looking for something. “Or even navy?” She paused when she spotted a purple dress. “Maybe that one,” she said, shaking her head.

I started actively looking too. After I’d moved two or three things over, I rested my forehead on the clothes and stopped searching. I was standing like that when Cynthia shoved a hanger into my hand.

“Wear that,” she said as she grabbed a pair of black flats and handed them to me. “And those.” She turned and left.

I stared at the dress on the hanger. It was black but it had bright red flowers on it. I shrugged. I didn’t have the ability to decide if it was appropriate or not.

We left for the funeral about twenty minutes after that.

****

I can’t recall a single detail about the funeral, except feeling numb the whole time. Cynthia literally held my hand and dragged me through the whole thing.

I was there. And then before I came out of the fog, we were back in the car heading home.

We parked in the driveway. Cynthia turned off the car and leaned back. Neither of us spoke.

I was staring at the floor mat under my black flats and thinking how off it was that though were both black, they weren’t the same color, but if you were asked to describe either the floor mat or my shoes, you would say they were black.

“Did you leave the front door open when we left?” Asked Cynthia.

“What?” I asked not really hearing what she said.

“Your front door is open.” She pointed to the house.

“What?” This time I looked at the house too. The front door was open. “You came out after me.”

“I know I closed it,” said Cynthia.

“What should we do?” I asked, still not sure about what was happening.

“Well, maybe the wind blew it open,” suggested Cynthia. “Let’s take a peek before we panic.”

I shrugged.

“Come on. Out of the car,” said Cynthia.

I followed her to the porch, where she stuck out her arm and prevented me from going into my own house.

“Don’t just walk in all willy-nilly,” she whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” I asked.

She pointed at the open door. Then she looked at me like I was crazy.

I shrugged and peeked into the house.

“What the hell?” I asked no one in particular.

Cynthia was behind me, and I was blocking her view. “What is it? Should I call the police?” She asked.

“Someone has been in my house,” I shouted.

“Don’t yell,” Cynthia whispered very loudly. “They could still be in there.”

I scanned around as much as I could without actually stepping inside. Things were knocked off the wall and off the shelves. From my viewpoint, I didn’t see anything missing. It looked like someone walked in and made a mess and then they left.

I stepped inside to see if any other room was disturbed.

Cynthia grabbed me by the arm. “Quietly,” she hissed at me.

“I don’t think they’re still here. Look at this mess. We would hear them.” I walked slowly though. Maybe they were still in there and were waiting for me to walk in.

We stopped in the living room. It looked much like the hall. Things were knocked over on shelves and off the walls, but everything appeared to be there.

“I don’t think it was a robbery,” I said. “Nothing looks like it’s missing, just knocked about.”

“Why would someone wreck your house?” Cynthia asked.

I shrugged, feeling the numbness starting to return.

That’s when we heard it. Something was upstairs. There was a strange scratching sound from the floor directly above me.

Cynthia’s eyes were wide, and she froze in place.

I was looking up wondering what would make a sound like that when there was a crash followed by something hitting the floor. I had no doubt that something else was getting knocked to the floor.

We both stood there, unable to move and unsure what we should do.

The next sound we heard changed everything though. We went from being deathly afraid to feeling silly.

The unmistakable sound of a bird cooing accosted both of us.

I looked around at my house in total disarray thinking there was no way a bird could have done all this damage. The cooing continued.

“We should go see what it is,” I said. “I bet if we open a window, it will just fly away.” It was the only time that day I felt connected to what was going on around me.

Upstairs, more things were knocked around. I stepped carefully past the mess and followed the sound of the cooing.

In my room, the cooing grew even louder. I looked around the door frame without stepping into the room. I didn’t want the bird to fly up into my face or anything. I scanned the room but didn’t see it. I did see my pajama top from that morning hopping around on its own.

I was about to step into the room when I was yanked back by Cynthia into the hallway.

“I called animal control,” she whispered.

“Don’t be silly. Its a bird, not a panther.” I wanted to show her I meant business so I walked into the room and opened both windows as wide as they would go. Then in one swift move, I grabbed at the moving pajama shirt and stepped back into the hallway.

The cooing continued and it sounded like it was coming closer. Cynthia and I were paralyzed again. The bird hopped into the hall and stopped right in front of us, staring like it was trying to figure out why we were just huddled together in the hallway.

It was a pigeon. It cooed and hopped, but it made no attempt to fly.

“I think its got a broken wing,” I said, pointing at one of its wings that was hanging at an odd angle.

“Probably broke it trying to redecorate your house,” said Cynthia.

I glared at her. “We need to help it.”

That was it for me. That helpless bird brought me back into the world, made me face reality, and snapped me from numb to human again. No idea how, but it did.

He lives in a coop in my backyard now. He can fly again, and he can leave. He comes home every night though.