Chapter Two: Mourning Doves

The service was held at the mansion mom grew up in, where Meeme and Pappy still lived.

Her body was held in a temporary coffin, lid open, in her old bedroom, that now looked like a memorial shrine room. Her photos were everywhere followed by her favorite vanilla candles and flowers that were her favorites when she was alive, roses, freesia, orchids and a few others I couldn't name.

They were going to cremate her once the ceremony was over, that's why the service was only 4 days after she passed, they preserved her body best they could, cleaned her up and put her in a nice outfit she had picked out for the next day.

She didn't want a funeral, but in this small town she was loved very much, and everyone needed to mourn. So it became a funeral for them to mourn, and a wake to celebrate her life like she'd wanted them to do.

She passed away in her sleep. Grief, no doubt from the anniversary that was a week before graduation, of her son's passing. My comment, most likely triggered more grief in her. Killed her.

My depression has me so far gone, that from an outsiders standpoint, it would probably look like her death didn't phase me one bit. Didn't even bother me. Inside, I was dying.

Suffocation is a normal feeling for someone struggling with depression. Like your eyes are always heavy, like when you are tired and trying to stay awake. Along with feeling like you are underwater, and drowning, but your breathing is just fine.

They tried to prescribe me medication for it once. Then I tried to overdose, so that went away.

Went hunting with my brother and I wasn't careful with my safety around my weapon. Leaned over the rail of the duck blind up in the tree, and fell, but didn't break anything or die. I was careless.

They took my gun privileges away at that point. Which meant my hunting trips with Dewey went away as well.

Dewey killed himself three weeks after that, but left me his rifle that they surprisingly let me keep after he passed, and let me stuff the bird he caught for me.

It was struggling to breath, he only injured it so there wasn't blood on it. I don't know how he caught it, but we were able to euthanize it before we had it stuffed. It now resides in a small cage beside my bed.

Many have asked me what the red ribbon meant on the bird my brother and I caught each year. So I told them.

When you are a human, your death is brought up to a lot of people, where they would go to mourn you. Clothed in beautiful garments, and surrounded by flowers and music, whereas a mere tiny bird, does not get the same recognition. Many animals die everyday and nobody knows about it. The white doves represent peace, and every time we hunt that dies.

What pops out against white better than the color red? And it is clothed in nothing other than it's blood so we tie a red ribbon to its foot and we bury it as an offering for all the animals that will come to pass with us that hunting morning.

They all respond with mediocre stuff like "that's cool" or "awe, that's really sweet of y 'all". But they leave it at that. They won't ever practice that. They mourn their own dead and not what fed that dead person when they were alive. They will keep stuffing their face with ice cream and cry every time they think about their lost loved one. Not the dove that died in memory of all the other doves; the peace that in essence, humans shatter and destroy everyday.

Nor the white cloth, stained red from the blood of the wounds of our fallen soldiers, that fought for the right for their loved ones to stuff their face with some damn ice cream over their sacrifice, instead of honoring it.

Some deaths go unnoticed, and then some don't. In the end the soldier is still dead, the ice cream is still gone, and so is my brother and the soul of the lifeless stuffed pigeon in the cage beside my bed with a red string around its foot.

That damn pigeon dove won't bring my brother back. .

Killing myself won't either. In fact, nothing will. He's gone for good. Crying won't bring my mother back. Crying is what killed her in the first place.

So I will just have to take a deep breath, and smile. Move away somewhere to mourn on my own without the whole town knowing my every waking thought, and get better.

Do it for my brother, who wanted me happy. Do it for my mother, who wanted to watch me grow up and have a family. Most importantly, however, I'll do it for my father, who is grieving right now after losing not one, but two of his beloved. I will not let him mourn for me too. I need to get better. I need to start hunting again.