In the way of dreams, my cat Misu was there, too, with her kitten, a silver tabby named Fog. One moment they were stalking a pair of mourning doves and the next - in the way of dreams - they were the doves, flying to safety of the telephone wire above, higher even than it could've really been, a dream height that could only exist in my mind.
I woke with the image still in front of my eyes, the cat-birds ascending ever higher, cooing their melancholy song. The image faded in a moment, but the dream has stayed with me ever since, refusing to yield even a hint of its meaning.
Flash forward 14 years, and it's two weeks ago, early morning. I am standing in the driveway of what was once my father's house. The sky is overcast, and the smell of damp gravel rises into the air. I see two cats - the neighbor's, probably - a mother cat and her kitten. The baby is pouncing the mother's tail. Misu, an elder stateswoman these days, peers at them disdainfully through the fog. There is the sound of wings, and a pair of mourning doves land on the wire overhead.
At once, the dream-feeling comes over me. I am - as near as possible, dream illogic aside - standing inside the dream. I feel slightly afraid. What will happen next?
Immediately, there is a loud crack in the silent morning. The birds and cats are off like a shot. Unnerved, I find the source of the noise: a birdhouse has fallen from a tree and shattered into tiny pieces on the rocks. Instinctively I begin to question how it could have broken with such force, made such a sound, but the knowing in the back of my mind tells me not to be a fool.
That shattering was 14 years' knowledge landing with a blow.
Things break apart.
All birds come home to roost.
