Him, and Pigeon Friday.

His eyes, bottomless blue, wide and shiny, hold the depth of grief before words arrive.

"Mum, I found a dead pigeon. I need your help to bury it."

In my covid-fogged, hypervigilant state, I sense something significant surfacing; a deep need craving to be met.

His eyes reveal the vastness of now, awash with recognition.

The pigeon’s neck is broken.

Flightless.

No longer free.

Our home is where it must stay.

Much like us.

Tears begin their descent as he explains.

"I was sitting on the fence, Mum. I saw it lying so still on the ground. Birds are meant to fly high in the sky. It wasn't flying like the others."

The side fence has become his new territory ~

a place to expel anger and frustration;

to watch our suburban Melbourne street pass by;

to let trees and birds coax him back to safety in his body.

His escape from covid-cloaked existence.

I notice my heartbeat slowing, my body lowering, words forming;

Let the tears be here, bud. Let them come.

The tears surge wild now.

The bird has given him permission to reveal his inner landscape,

and its terrain is in tatters ~

anger, sadness, denial, bargaining

cycling through all at once.

"You didn't deserve to die!" he yells;

"The world was a better place with you in it. Whyyyyyyyy? I don't want you to die! Mum, can we buy a pet pigeon? Where do they sell them? Can we get one today? We neeeeeeed to find one."

His grief overwhelms;

so strong I don’t know how to be,

how to help my boy through this pain.

As I embrace him, I notice my own pull;

wanting to protect and also aching to surrender,

to join him in his mourning.

It’s as if he senses my own need ~

my longing to acknowledge all the loss.

Of connection.

Of touch.

Of laughter.

Of hope.

Of spontaneity.

Of freedoms never thought lost.

Of time.

Too much time, disconnected.

He takes me and all our sadness by the hand;

holds our hurting hearts,

and leads us toward what we need most ~ ritual.

"We need to dig a hole, Mum. One big enough for it to fit and be comfortable."

We dig together.

Taking turns.

Both his feet on one side of the shovel, mine on the other.

The first spot hits concrete.

Maybe we need help, bud?

"No Mum. We need to do this, just you and me."

Another spot, tears still torrential.

"I'll put it in the hole, Mum. I want to do it."

Watching him carry it toward the hole, trying to realign its neck for burial, I wonder about this child I know so well.

How his explosive tendencies get more airtime than this tender capacity.

How behind his hostility lives fear, sadness, pain.

How we need more opportunities to explore loss.

How nourishing it is to grieve.

"Mum, I don't want it buried alone. Can we find something to bury with it? What do pigeons eat? Can we search it up?"

His tears ease to gentle trickle.

We discover; pigeons eat grains, some fruits, green things.

We gather bread, blueberries, coriander.

"I'll tear the bread, Mum. It needs small pieces."

Another deluge follows the preparation.

"Not yet, Mum! Can we give it time to be with the food before we fill the hole? Can we write the sign first?"

I’ve never seen him write with such purpose.

Usually his need for perfection creates barriers;

frustration ready to pounce.

Today is different.

~

RIP Pigeon Friday 10/9/2021 September 💚 Love from Fergus

~

"Mum, can you fill the hole? I don't want to. Please be gentle. I'm ready now."

As my kid takes my hand, so warm and alive, I notice the lightness.

A cleansing; an oceanic cycle fulfilled.

The complexity of being human not only acknowledged but celebrated.

Once flightless, now freed ~ his feelings flee their cooped-up cage; wings spread wide; beautiful in mid-afternoon light.

I am so appreciative of him. Him, and Pigeon Friday.

He squeezes my hand, swings our arms; suggests a cuddle on the couch ~ time together to remember; to imagine the bird who once made its way freely across our city’s streets and skies.

~

As I re-read this four years later, what strikes me is that I already knew I was in the presence of something sacred; knew it completely, without words.

The sovereignty and dignity moving through us needed no explanation; only presence.

In that moment, watching him write with such purpose, I was simply there.

Tenderness and strength holding together without conflict.

Ceremony arriving on its own.

A space for grief where others might have hurried past.

Healing through the smallest, most intentional acts.

This was generational transmission ~ he was already showing me what I would only later name as relational ontology.

Internal relatedness; where his grief still made room for mine.

Sovereignty within relationship; where he could tend the pigeon while allowing me my own response.

Organic emergence; where ritual revealed itself through embodied knowing rather than imposed structure.

~ The transmission flows both ways ~