In a massive ballroom decked out like a country club wedding reception, a small boy broke open his birthday piñata. A dove with a yarn leash fell out. The boy skipped off with his new toy in tow, flapping its wings in panic behind him. My eyes followed the dove as it attempted to fly away. When it came to the end if its tether, it strained against it and I caught a glimpse of something above us.
Dozens of white doves lined the rafters. They were all perched practically motionless - silent and calm with alertness in their eyes that was very much alive. Many of them were thin with missing feathers from weeks of neglect – symbols used for celebrations past and forgotten. They were trapped by the grand architecture of the ballroom. Twenty feet below the the dying birds, the oblivious crowd cheered, drank and danced. I was horrified. I pulled out my phone and called for help (animal rescue?). As I explained to the man on the other end how serious the situation was, I followed the boy out into the courtyard in hopes of getting ahold of the dove to set it free.
Upon spotting a group of children playing outside, the boy lost interest in the dove and released the leash. I took the bird in my hands and looked for a way to remove the leash as its panicked flapping subsided. His beak was broken as a person’s nose would be – misaligned and bloody. There were tiny blood splatters on his head. My heart sank. I couldn't set him free because he would surely die without medical attention. I held the dove gently against my chest and felt his warm belly against my palm. For a moment we were both absolutely still, gazing out over the sea of people as we waited for help to arrive.
Then I woke up.
What does it mean?
