My Mother Is A Mourning Dove

         My mother is a mourning dove. Her beauty charms those that observe her and her grace is unparalleled. She is adorned with feathers of brown and blonde and has soft porcelain skin beneath. Mother soars through the skies on gentle wings, free to go where she pleases. She sees all from up in the sky and watches over her fledglings with tender care. Mother loves her freedom and has travelled far and wide on her wings, seeing the world, hearing the sounds, meeting the people. On her travels her gentle charm and sweet song brought her much praise and adoration. Mother always loves to be praised.
         Mother’s dreams soar among the clouds with her. Together they fly and she dreams and the dream is real for mother in the clouds. Then Mother awakens and the dream has left. But even if you awaken the memories still remain. Her memories and dreams keep Mother free, free to soar and flit and forget. Mother has much she wishes to forget. That which she wishes to forget is often forgotten until she must remember. Then Mother pretends to love and miss and care for the Forgotten for a brief moment and once her time to remember has passed, she forgets once more. Mother’s mind is her own and is always flying.
         Mother is a dove. Her flights lead her far and wide and her memories and her not-memories shape her wings. Her not-memories remain, always, though forgotten they are, until mother must remember once more. The Forgotten have learned to be forgotten and grieve no longer for being a not-memory. But Mother is was even if she really is is and so, since Mother is was now, Mother is not is and never was.