The dove flew onto the ledge outside the window and cooed so softly it was almost a suggestion rather than a song. Charity heard the sweet sound and turned to look at the bird. Somehow its appearance seemed a grace.
She smiled a little, then a bit more, the lift reaching her green eyes. Charity was a stranger to these sterile rooms and the dove felt like a warmer welcome. Something less a problem than what she was going through.
How did one acclimate being taken miles and more, states, from home? Being was strange without the familiar things that kept her comfort when the world was too much to bear.
A few bags, some devices, were her packing for a week, maybe two – not months. She had trusted the situation would be temporary. How had it come to this?
Little dove, ah Love!
© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan
Wednesday, June 19, 2024
Haphazard Creative 