The day after my dad died, a pair of mourning doves built a nest outside my parents' bedroom window nine floors above Manhattan's Upper West Side. We were too exhausted and too shellshocked to wonder why. We simply named them Victoria and Albert.
Albert, a dun-colored, sweet tempered, slightly chubby little fellow, foraged for nesting material in the leafy backyards of West End Avenue. Returning to Victoria with the most improbable items, he climbed on her back and poked her with sticks until she acknowledged him.
They wedged their charming children's book nest in the corner of the partially open window, sticks and leaves and tail feathers poking into the room where my mom awakens evert morning to their stereophonic cooing.
A few days later, two eggs appeared -- luminous, opalescent symbols of eternal life. Devoted parents-to-be, the doves incubate their eggs together, taking shifts. Mourning doves are said to mate for life.
Thirty-two years ago, my parents moved their young family into this apartment, looked out this very window, and saw a rainbow.
Even as the wind blows and the snow gathers, Victoria and Albert sit perfectly still, their little faces content with purpose and bright with anticipation.
Every day, we run to the window to check for babies. The delight we feel in bearing witness to this intensely private, primal process, is immense. We marvel at their sweetness, their devotion to each other. They are such companionable little creatures – they even tolerate our company. Indeed, they seem to be watching over us, just like my dad did. Don't worry, poulakia! I'm with you always.*
