T The Messenger at the Fire Door

There is a pigeon at the back of the store I manage. She is a nice, friendly, beige thing, and I had never seen her before Nan passed away.

The very next day, when I went to work and opened the fire exit, this beautiful bird appeared on the brick fence and eyed me with open curiosity. I spoke to her. I said,

“Hello, Nan. I am all right. Do not worry about me.”

She looked deeply interested, walked towards me, stopped close to my face, and then casually flew away.

Since then, every single day, when I open the fire door, she is there, watching me with that same quiet curiosity in her eyes.

I do not feed her.

I do not tend to her.

There is no earthly reason for her to come and say hello to me at all.

I am not superstitious.

I am, however, deeply spiritual.

And I am certain this bird has something to do with my grandmother.

Even if this pigeon is not her personally, not a fragment of her soul made feather and bone, I know that she is visiting me through her, or at the very least, sending a messenger to check on me and report back.

And I know it is her. Because she knew I deeply love pigeons.

It is lovely, how the smallest things, signs like this, can make your day a little brighter and your heart a little more hopeful, proving once again that there is a kind of afterlife, and that I am being looked after by my departed ancestors.

That even in death, the ones who loved us do not simply stop.

They find a way.

A feather, a fence, a pair of curious eyes at the fire door every morning, and the quiet, stubborn insistence of a grandmother who was never very good at leaving me well enough alone.