Dashing home from school was my daily ritual, as predictable as the sunrise. Every afternoon, I’d bolt through the streets like a greyhound after a rabbit, hell-bent on shedding the stiff, starchy school uniform and slipping into my ragged jeans, a worn-out jumper, and a pair of black gym shoes so full of holes they could’ve moonlighted as colanders. The plan was always the same: get out and about with my mates before the day’s light fizzled out.
But one particular sprint home took a turn the moment I trotted through the back gate and into our yard, still half-hopping as I wrestled off one shoe. That’s when I saw it. Sat in the corner by the outside loo, as nonchalant as you please, was a pigeon. Not flapping off in a panic, not so much as twitching. It just sat there, its tiny head bobbing from side to side like a wind-up toy.
I stood stock-still, heart thumping, ready for the inevitable explosion of wings and feathers. But the bird stayed put, watching me with the same curiosity I had for it. It wasn’t wearing one of those little leg rings that marked out posh racing pigeons, so I reckoned it was just a common Wood Pigeon. But what did I know? Ornithology wasn’t exactly on the school curriculum.
It kept pecking at the ground now and then, as if hinting it was feeling a bit peckish. A hungry, injured pigeon, I thought, my heart melting. So, with all the stealth and caution of a cat burglar, I crept closer, inch by inch, hardly daring to breathe. It didn’t budge. A couple more steps: still nothing! Before I knew it, I was cradling it in my hands like it was the Crown Jewels. Not a peck or a scratch – just a few curious head bobs as if it were perfectly content to be coddled like a newborn baby.
I stood there, cradling my feathered treasure, wondering what on earth to do next. Nudging the back door open with my knee, I braced myself for Mum’s inevitable shriek about germs and diseases – she was convinced anything with feathers was riddled with plague. But instead, she cooed, “Awww, isn’t it lovely?”
Before long, half the street knew about my new best mate. I’ d tried setting it free twice, but each time it only managed a pathetic flap before plopping back down in the yard, as if to say, “Nah, I think I’ll stay.” Soon, a neighbour contributed an old rabbit hutch, another brought pigeon feed, and I was the proud owner of a makeshift aviary. Nothing else mattered – I was smitten, and Sally (yes, I’d named her after the singer from Middle of the Road) was the prettiest bird in the village.
Every evening, I’d watch her from my bedroom window, peering down into the yard to make sure she was safe. I barely slept a wink, too jittery with excitement, already feeling that odd flutter of anxiety that comes with love – the kind that warns you that happiness might be fleeting. Not that Dad’s constant talk of ‘pigeon pie’ was helping. He’d natter on about how tasty she’d be, and I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking.
Weeks rolled by, and every day after school, I’d rush home, tearing off my uniform as if it were on fire before bolting out to see Sally. I’d tell her all my secrets, every dream and fear – even the horrible stuff, convinced she understood every word. Sometimes, I’d pick her up and launch her into the air, hoping she’d soar like a champion racer, but more often than not, she’d flap about clumsily before settling back down, looking slightly embarrassed.
But then came the day that shattered my little world. I came home to find my brother poking at the hutch with a stick, rattling the mesh and taunting Sally, who was trembling in the corner. Fury surged through me, hotter than a coal fire. I flew at him like a man possessed, fists swinging, teeth bared. It was David and Goliath all over again, except this Goliath was bigger, meaner, and wielding a plastic dart.
He hurled it at me with the precision of a pub-league champion, and it smacked me in the back of the head before clattering to the ground, leaving a stinging welt. I barely felt it, my concern only for Sally. She was still, no sparkle in her eye, feathers quivering. I petted her gently, whispering soothing nonsense, my heart breaking at her fear.
Thinking she needed a bit of fresh air, I carried her out and tossed her skyward, expecting the usual awkward flapping and short descent. But this time was different. She soared higher, further, faster than ever before. I watched, mouth agape, as she disappeared beyond the wheat fields, out of sight. She didn’t come back.
I stood there, alone in that field, feeling like the wind had been punched out of me. Sally was gone, and she wasn’t coming back. I still feel that ache, even now, a sense of loss that’s never quite left me. It was my first lesson in heartbreak, the first inkling that the things you love don’t always stay – or weren’t meant to.
Easy come, not so easy go.
We lose to learn how deeply we loved.
Wording 