The White Speckled Dove

I met him in a Sydney city square with his adopted daughter. He had hair like feathers, and he held a white speckled dove while he whispered stories of love. His daughter watched him with staring eyes and caught one of the dove’s feathers as it flapped over her.


“Feathers are good luck,” I said to her and he agreed.


We talked for sometime that day, and the next, and everyday for two years. His daughter now pulled and pinned my hair into a crown and gave me the flower and feather bouquet. He and I walked together and the rabbi joined us together.


“Look,” he whispered and a white speckled dove flew over us.

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