Room 806

It is an iconic memory from my youth.

Walking outside, I was met by a beautifully bright, cool Spring morning, the air cleansed with the freshness of an overnight rain. I found Mother exactly as I had expected; kneeling on the ground, quietly working one of her many gardens.

As I began to speak, Mother looked up and, putting a finger to her mouth, silently encouraged me to take time to listen to a dove as it cooed.

After a moment, Mother smiled and, as if sharing a confidence, revealed she liked to mark her calendar every year with the date she first heard the call of a dove.

By a turn of good fortune, I had come upon Mother at the exact moment she celebrated an annual, sacred moment; this is when I learned of the special communion she shared with her “crocus birds” ~ the doves, her birds of early Spring.

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When the gentle cooing of a mourning dove from a bird clock hanging on the wall in Room 806 sounded for the second time last Friday, another child was also fortunate to be at her mother’s side ~ this time, as the woman took a final breath.

“If only I had wings like a dove that I might fly away and find rest.” ~ Psalm 55:6

Being a devoutly religious woman, I can’t help believe Mabel would have found significance in the call of a mourning dove at the very moment of her death ~ that such symbolism had been placed in her family’s path to convey a message upon which they could focus in the hours, days and weeks to come.

Mabel would probably want them to look upon the dove as a potent reminder of the importance of peace in their lives. She would want them to share in her own belief that peace, as symbolized by the dove, will not only work to quiet their troubled minds but will also allow them to find renewal in the silence. And through the stillness inherent to silence, she would want them to fully appreciate the simple blessing and importance of a life well-lived.

It should also be noted that at the moment of Mabel’s death, after the dove had finished its mournful lament, the bird clock stopped working altogether.

The significance seems profound:

Just as I had been fortunate to share a special moment with Mother and her “crocus birds” many years ago at the advent of Spring, Mabel’s daughter was truly blessed to be at her Mother’s side as the dove cooed, witness to the most sacred moment of Mabel’s life as she moved on to another existence that will have her knowing nothing of the boundaries of time.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘She is dead.’
Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

She was our North, our South, our East and West,
Our working week and Sunday rest,
Our noon, our midnight, our talk, our song;
We thought that love could last forever; we were wrong.

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

From W.H. Auden’s “Funeral Blues”

JEM and Mabel; Christmas 2008 GVM