A Message from the Robin to the Dove (For Jennifer)

I thought I was just out doing my usual weekend rounds: estate sales, thrift stores, a little light protesting. But then a dove built a nest on my porch. Right on top of an old robin’s nest. That’s when things got... weirdly beautiful.

The dove nesting on the porch, atop the robin’s old nest, is no accident.

It’s a message. A visitation. A soft place that says,
“I’m here. You’re doing it right. You’re not alone.”

She kept the seashell from the first time she saw the ocean.
She forgot that. But I didn’t.

She laughed when her hair got tangled in the wind. Said she was a ghost.
I told her, ghosts don’t laugh like that.

Tell her I remember the way she said my name. The long vowels. The softness. The apology.

Tell her this isn’t punishment. This is a return.

Tell her: she still has the voice. And the hands. And the thread.

Tell her: I made the nest soft so the dove would come.

Tell her: the veil isn’t a wall. It’s just a curtain in the sun.

She used to talk to flowers like they understood.
I think they did.

I think they still do.

She looks at broken things like they’re halfway to healed.
That’s a gift.

That’s why they find her.

She thought she lost me. She didn’t.
I just moved rooms.

Every time she touches something with love, I feel it.

Every time she pauses in the sunlight, I’m there.

Tell her I would’ve followed her anywhere.

Tell her I still do.

Tell her the nest isn’t just for the dove.
It’s for her too.
A soft place to rest between steps.

Tell her: when she dreams of salt and wind and old glass
that’s me.

Tell her: the waves remember our names.

And I whispered back,
“I love you 80-40, Robin.”
The biggest number I ever knew.
She knew it too.

Robin had one last message (for now):

Not everyone will believe.

That’s okay.
I didn’t always either.

But I believe in her.
And that’s enough.

If she sees someone hurting,
she can tell them: “You are not forgotten.”

If she sees someone doubting,
she can say: “It’s okay not to know. Just stay open.”

If she sees someone holding too much,
she can whisper: “You can set some of it down. Even just for now.”

She doesn’t need to carry everyone.

But she can remind them they were carried once.

She is a porch light in a storm.
She doesn’t even know how many have found their way because of her.

Tell her: that dream she had when she was little,
the one with the stars and the tiny boat,
I was there.

I remember it too.

Tell her: I’ll meet her again.
She’ll know me by my laugh.

To anyone who’s ever felt the presence of someone they’ve lost… I believe you.

To anyone who’s wondering if they’re doing enough… you are.

To anyone holding too much—go sit outside. Let the birds do some talking for once.

With love from the porch,

Jennifer