Sunday February 4, 2007

Taking Him Home

The drum beat fast. I sat slumped against the wall, breathing deeply into my stomach.

“I journey to take the soul of my father home”, I murmured under my breath, three times.

I ducked under the olive tree and emerged into the shrub lined path. As I walked, the bushes fell away and I found myself on the pavement opposite Charing Cross. A blue-grey pigeon bobbed and hopped in front of me, so I followed him.

High on the ridge above the sea, the pigeon hopped across the woodland burial ground to my father’s still brown and bare grave. Bending, I peeled back the earth, like a duvet and climbed down.

My father seemed confused and dazed, just like he had been, the last time I had been with him in life. Quietly, I explained to him that he was dead and that I had come to take him home. “Yes daughter” he said. He seemed to understand and be ready.

The pigeon picked him up by the scruff of his neck and flew off into the air. The dogs, who had been slumbering quietly at my father’s feet, rose and climbed out, and I followed too.

We moved quickly across the landscape until we saw the pigeon stop at a great tall yew tree. Standing at the foot, I craned my neck to see the pidgin fly to the top and then launch himself across the pale sky, up and onwards until he became a spec in the distance and then nothing.

Looking down at the foot of the tree, I saw the dogs had gone. I turned and walked away, alone but with a settled heart.