Ava Harrison submitted a poem in her creative writing class in the spring of 1971.
***
Ava Harrison
Prof. James Thompson/Poetry Class
April 2, 1971
THE MOURNING DOVE CRIES FOR ME
As I rest my chin upon the windowsill of my second-story bedroom, I feel safe. It is the only place that is mine. For some reason, I am safe, here, looking out the window.
The window overlooks a park. Miller Park is its name, with its birch trees and large oaks. I don’t know any of the trees by name because I can’t retain anything I learn; unless, of course, I am the child that learned it in the first place. But it doesn’t make any difference. I just enjoy them, the trees. But mostly, I see the birds in the trees. In a stifling environment of suppressed feelings, I learn to feel when I watch the birds. I feel when they fly.
There is one bird, though, that stands out above all the others. Not for its looks, or the way it flies, but for its song. Oh, sure, there are others that sing. There has to be. There are robins, wrens, and chickadees, to name a few. But I only hear the mourning dove. She has a sing-song kind of tune, and she can lull you to sleep, in a mournful sort of way. I don’t know it by its looks; I just know she comforts me. She must know what I’m going through, how uncanny of her.
So, every day, I steal away, up to the window of my second story bedroom, where I am safe. A place I call mine. And then she comes, the mourning dove comes, and she cries for me.
***
Veteran’s Home 2009
“He began with you, Ava, and now he can end with you.” The voice of my aunt drips with righteous indignation. “You never know,” she continues, “whose gonna give you your last glass of water.”
With my cell phone tucked under my chin, Auntie drones on over the irony of the situation while I nudge the metal door opener with my elbow. Jostling my purse, a Sears bag of new men’s underwear, and a folder of my dad’s military papers, I hang up from my aunt and wait for the automatic doors to yawn open.
As I enter the two-story atrium of this newly built veteran’s home, it boasts a vaulted ceiling and stone fireplace. Iconic images representing the military branches are displayed behind glass partitions inviting more of a museum like atmosphere than a nursing home. I’m greeted by a massive circular desk where an elderly woman manning phones motions for me to sign in. And that familiar smell? Well, there is none—only the aroma of roasted coffee beans beckoning from the gift shop. After finding the perfect spot on my blouse for the sticky visitor tag, I make a beeline for a large brown leather wingback and wait for my father’s transport van to arrive.
With nothing else to do but stare at the walls, I notice they’re also decorated with military memorabilia and artifacts. I try to relax and compose myself for what’s ahead. I never knew my dad served in the military, let alone a warship. His naval papers report a Merchant Marine, a machinist with an honorable discharge. You’d think I’d feel proud or patriotic; but I don’t feel anything—except maybe surreal, perched in a chair waiting to reunite with my father after many years with a fighter plane hanging over my head.
To my surprise, I see a doddering old man shuffling toward me. He’s behind a walker, pushing-walking, pushing-walking, his eyes set on me. Watching him persevere, I realize I’m the object of his fortitude: “Hi there, young lady,” he announces. He’s clergy of some kind, with clerical collar, topped off with a well-worn baseball cap with a red cardinal embroidered on the rim.
“Hello,” I say back.
“I haven’t seen brown eyes like yours since my time in Italy,” the old man explains, “in double-u, double-u two. Say, do you have time to marry me? I got a half-hour before lunch, and you don’t look like you’re doin’ anything.”
The twinkle in his eye tells me it’s all in fun. “Well, let me see, I’m waiting for my father to arrive, but as soon as I get him settled in his room, I’ll be happy to marry you. Can you wait till the afternoon?”
“Why, this works out great, you waitin’ for your father and all. I can ask him for your hand.” He braces himself against his walker. “You Italian? I met my wife while stationed in Rome. She’s with Jesus now. I miss her. I miss her eyes.” He brings himself back from his memories. “See you after lunch, now, and don’t stand me up!”
“I won’t,” I promise. As I watch him maneuver his way over to the dining hall, he salutes a row of veterans in full regalia parked in front of a bird aquarium nodding off in their wheelchairs.
A voice echoes overhead: “Will Ava Thompson, please come to the receiving desk.”
I return to the massive counter. “I’m Ava Thompson.”
“We received a call from Montclair Nursing Home regarding Sam Harrison?” The woman looks up over her glasses at me. “Are you his daughter?”
“Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” she says, glancing at her notepad. “Your father will be an hour late.”
“Did they say why?”
“Just that he’ll arrive closer to one o’clock. I’ll let Linda know, she’s the intake coordinator.”
I follow my nose to the gift shop. “Your coffee of the day, please.” A teenage girl donning a long apron tells me to help myself around the corner. An old black and white war movie plays on a flat screen above the coffee bar. John Wayne’s character is lighting a woman’s cigarette as she holds it to her lips. I can almost smell the cigarette smoke as it wafts up around their faces. They both take long drags and gaze into each other’s eyes. The woman tilts her head back and blows a stream of smoke into the air. My coffee taste bitter.
My phone rattles inside my purse—it’s my sister, Maureen.
“Hey.”
“Are you with Dad?”
“No, he’s not here yet.”
“Isn’t he supposed to be there by now?”
“Yes, but Montclair called and said he’d be an hour late.”
“Good grief, Ava—just leave. You filled out the paperwork—that’s more than enough.”
“I know, but I’m here now, and it’s what I want. He knows I’m the one meeting him, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, it was the last thing I said to him before I lost it. Hey, on the upside, I wanted to remind you of the family picnic next month. You’ve missed so many.”
“Jim and I can’t wait. Can we bring the boys home with us? They asked at the funeral.”
“Teenage boys? You’re brave …”
“We’d love it …”
“You know, Ava, none of us had any idea—but after reading Mom’s journals, we understand why you stayed away. Beth and I were too busy playing Barbies, I guess—Dad’s read them, you know.”
“He has?”
“He knows you told Mom about the garage thing. I can’t even imagine Ava—you were so young.”
“You know, Maureen, it’s not just what Dad did …”
“Hey, Ava, before I forget, congratulations on getting your poems published.”
“Oh! Thank you—pretty cool, huh?”
“Very cool, better let you go—love you, and call me when you get out of there.”
How nice of her to check on me. I never wanted to be apart from my sisters, let alone my parents. I check the time and look around. A library, a coffee shop—it’ll be nice visiting him here. I’ll explain, and everything will be all right. He can’t live the rest of his life alone, that I’m sure of. I know my sisters will come around.
An entire family comes through the main entrance, interrupting my thoughts. Leading the way in a motorized wheelchair is a man in uniform loaded down with medals, a large bird cage on his lap. A woman attendant is walking with them. She looks my way and spots my name tag. “Oh, hey, I’m looking for you! Your father just arrived.”
“You must be Linda,” I say, shaking her hand.
“That be me,” she replies. “They had problems with the lift, but he’s here now. I was just about to page you.”
“Where’s he at?” I ask, looking around.
“Down this way,” she says, leading the way. Guessing her to be in her thirties, we walk in step down a hall, her pony tail swinging back and forth as she walks. “He’s parked at the curb,” she continues, “transport vans come to the east entrance down here, that way we can use a dolly for their luggage and things.”
The van’s lift is lowering my father in his wheelchair onto the sidewalk. He looks comical in this heat sporting a faux leather bomber jacket and VFW hat. Seeing him at the funeral prepares me for the change in his looks.
“I heard your mother died last month,” Linda says, leaning close to me. “We’ll watch him carefully. The nurse practitioner will give him a thorough evaluation; we’ll keep you updated on any meds.”
“My mother’s heart attack surprised all of us.”
“We’re placing your father in a hospital room till an apartment is available. So sorry for the mix-up.”
“What mix-up? My father doesn’t have his own apartment?”
“I’m so sorry. I thought they told you! Your father will move up on the waiting list like before, he’s still next in line after the death of one of our vets—as you know this is their home till that time. But someone didn’t follow protocol—jumped the gun; and your father is back on the waiting list. One of our vets, sweet man—chaplain during the war—was diagnosed … “
“I think I met him! Does my dad know all about this?”
“Oh, of course, we gave him the option to stay at Montclair—but he wanted to come now.”
“This may sound cold, but will my father be waiting long? I mean, does this man, can you tell me …”
“He has kidney failure.”
We both approach my dad left waiting on the sidewalk. “Well, if it isn’t the poet,” he says, breaking the ice.
“Hello, Dad.”
“How old are you now? Let’s see, you were in college last time I remember. That’s a real long education. You must have a million degrees by now.”
“Not now, Dad, please.”
“You still shackin’ up with that professor?” The transport attendant is lifting his legs onto the foot rests of his wheelchair ignoring the tension between us.
“Professor Thompson and I are still together, if that’s what you mean.”
“Okay, Sam,” Linda interrupts us, “let’s get you settled into your new home.”
I follow them back into the building as she pushes my dad in his wheelchair down endless halls. My once movie-star-handsome father, who flirted with anything in a skirt, is now a joke to his reputation. His looks are still there, but the wheelchair and oxygen tubes up his nose tell you his Don Juan days are over.
When we get to the room, Linda squats down beside my father’s wheelchair and pats his arm. “Welcome home, Sam. Are you hungry? It’s lunch time.”
“Yeah, I’m hungry,” he says. He sizes her up and down to see if she’s worth looking at as she leaves the room.
“I see your sisters are keeping their promise,” he says.
“Your affairs caused a lot of pain in our family.”
“Well, apparently, you didn’t like it.” My father throws his hat on the bed. “But staying away only made your mother suffer.”
“Mom, suffer? The day I found you and that woman in the garage is the day my relationship with Mom ended. I found a pack of Marlboro’s in the driveway. I went looking for you in the garage to give them to you.”
“I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“Mom hated me after that.”
Dad laughs. “Hated you?”
“She never said anything, but I could feel it. I never understood it until I was older. She blamed me, Dad.”
“What do you want from me?”
“After college, Dad—it wasn’t because of you I disappeared. Mom told me to never come back.”
“Well, isn’t that rich.”
“Why didn’t you tell me not to tell her, Dad? You saw me, didn’t you? You should’ve stopped me, run after me, anything. I was a little girl; I didn’t know any better.”
“You didn’t know any better? You mean to tell me you’re blaming me because you’re a little tattletale?” A barn swallow flutters outside the window.
“Don’t, Dad.”
“Why do you think I had affairs? So, you got the cold shoulder, did you? From the ice lady?”
Knock, knock, anybody hungry?” Linda comes in with Dad’s lunch. “Here you go, Sam. I’ll just sit it down here on the table for you. Can I bring you a tray, Ava?”
“No—no thank you, Linda. I’m—I’m leaving now. Do I give you Dad’s papers?”
“Just leave them on the table,” she tells me. “I’m going to lunch myself; I’ll be back to get them later.” I watch her pony tail swing back and forth as she leaves the room.
“Did Maureen tell you to bring me some underwear?” my dad asks. “I hate these damn diapers.” He rolls his wheelchair over to the table where Linda placed his tray. I take the Sears bag and place it in his drawer.
“Dad, I was hoping we could be a family again. Maureen and Beth will come around, I’ll come get you for the picnic even—if they see …”
“See what?”
“You know—that everything’s okay.”
My dad grips the handles of his wheelchair. “I never loved your mother,” he mocks, “I only married her because she got pregnant—with you. I did the responsible thing, something you wouldn’t understand, it’s called a marriage license. I saved her reputation—and yours. Only to have you sit around and write poems with some guy never to be seen again—and now everything’s okay?”’
My dad, shift’s his weight back and forth frustrated he can’t move. “Go away, Ava,” he finally says. “I want you to leave.”
I leave and wait outside his door to compose myself. Not sure how to get back to the main entrance, I begin walking down a maze of corridors hugging the walls to steady myself. Finally, outside, I slow down and relax a bit to get my bearings for the parking lot. Passing a landscaped garden, I see the old chaplain sitting on a black iron bench in the shade.
He notices me too. “Hello, young lady!”
Moving closer to him, and waving: “Well, goodbye, it was nice meeting you.”
“Happy families are all alike”; he says, “but every unhappy family is unhappy in his own way.”
I can tell we’re having fun again. “Tolstoy,” I proudly tell him.
“Oh, —there she is,” holding his hand to his ear. “Do you hear her?”
“Uh, yes—.” I smile at him; “The mourning dove ….”
“Did you know in Christianity the mourning dove is a symbol of the Holy Spirit? She moans for us when we’re too sad to speak. Some say, she’s a symbol of hope and peace—for patience and perseverance. I think she brought reassurance to Noah, that trees would once again grow on dry land. She comforts us, reminding us always to look for signs of life.”
I sit down next to him. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m dying, they tell me. Maybe you will stop in and say hello now and then?”
“Of course, I will—” I tell him. “But I wasn’t planning …”
The old man interrupts me: “The dove came back with nothing on his first try.”
***
One Month Later …
“He’s dressed and raring to go,” Linda announces. “Aren’t you, Sam?” My dad manages a polite nod, while Jim and an attendant proceed to take him out to the van.
“This picnic will be good for all of us,” I tell Linda; “and the park is just down the street.”
“I’m glad you talked him into it.”
“He was easy compared to my sisters.”
“I have something for you.” Linda pulls out
a square gray envelope with my name on it.
“The Chaplain asked me to give this
to you after his death.”
“For me?”
“We get attached to all our vets, but he’ll really be missed.”
I thank Linda and give her a quick hug. Settling into the van, I turn around to check on my dad. “Are you comfortable, back there?”
“I thought you were never coming out.”
I throw a knowing glance at Jim, and immediately commence opening my card. On the front cover is a pencil drawing of a dove, and on the inside—a solitary message, written in large sprawling cursive: Look for signs of life.
“Is this the park, Ava?” Jim asks.
“Yes—yes, this is it.”
We slowly pull into a designated area filled with wooden picnic tables and grills. My family has arrived before us and my sisters greet us waving flags in the air. My nephews pause their Frisbee game and watch us drive onto the gravel road in front of the pavilion. Signs of life.
Jim parks the car and glances up at the rearview mirror. “Are you ready, Sam?”
I get out and look around. It’s beautiful, like most parks, with large oaks and birch trees. I love the trees, but mostly I love the birds in the trees. But there’s one bird that stands out above all the rest. I don’t see her. I don’t even know what she looks like. But she always knows what I’m going through. How uncanny of her. And, so she comes. The mourning dove comes. And she cries for me.