An antidote to loneliness is the sense of belonging.
My father is a pigeon fancier. A dying hobby among men that thrives in his heart. It blooms through care. It blooms through attention. It blooms through time. You can see that reflected in the glistening feathers, neatly lined up. By the hefty strokes that flick their wings through the air. City pigeons my father calls rats. He thinks they're so ugly he can't call them pigeons. He sees the grubby feathers. The mutilated legs. He sees a lack of care, and love. He sees mournfulness. That that place cannot be a home but only a house. On November 4th I realised I haven’t heard any birds sing in a while.
