May/June 2013

“Excuse me, may I please have those two doves?” Running to the market, my father clutched the bagful of coins to his chest. On the leather bag was sewn “,” horse, in Chinese, the only gift that his father had given him before the war. He hurried across town, walking under the wood sign with the words “Tai City” etched on it and following the path, which he knew by heart. He finally arrived at the center of town, full of street vendors selling fruits and other goods, with gray-uniformed soldiers at every corner. The coins were clanking against each other inside the bag as if clamoring to break free. My father lowered his eyes from the glaring of the men and shuffled to the doves’ area. He spilled the coins onto his calloused, rough hands and spoke to the salesperson. “Excuse me,” he said in a steady voice, “may I please have those two doves?” My father pointed to the two slender spotted doves perched inside an angular metal cage—the doves which he had admired for so long. The man glared suspiciously at him. “Do you have the money?” “Yes, sir,” replied my father, trying to look confident despite the fluttering inside his stomach, “here are the four yuan for both of them.” The salesman quickly grabbed the money out of my father’s hands as if afraid someone would steal it and counted the coins four times. Just as quickly, the salesman shoved the two doves into my father’s arms and dismissively waved his hand for my father to be on his way. The doves were really his now. He had imagined this moment for quite some time, though in his daydreams, his father would have been there with him, negotiating with the bird seller, cracking jokes with those he knew, and maybe even stopping for a small treat for both of them once the doves were safely in their hands. But he was alone, and even finally being the owner of two beautiful doves did not lessen the hurt of missing his father. Will I ever see him again? he wondered. As my father held the doves, he felt the anxiety disappear. He could hear the piping of the magpies fluttering from tree to tree. The sky broadened deeper blue, and the sun’s rays shone among the few trees, whose shadows lightened. The city no longer smelled of failure and sweat, but now of hope and persistence. My father reached an apartment building plastered with old advertisements and newspaper postings that had disintegrated into the walls. Though dirty flies swarmed his hair, trying to bite his skin, he paid no attention. My grandmother came out to greet him. In my mind’s eye, I can almost see her now in her ragged apron, though she was younger then and her hair was still inky and brilliant. She hugged him, with the hands that supported the family, the ones that sewed the clothes and cooked the food. My grandmother looked at him with hope and love, the smile smoothing out premature wrinkles that had already started forming on her face. The doves chirped around at the home, preening themselves and each other. They flew about, occasionally gulping down a fly that got in their way. They are so useful already, my father thought. My grandmother watched my father’s visible admiration of the doves, and smiles settled onto their faces for the first time since his father had gone to war. *          *          * My father remembered the day. The sun shone brightly and cheerfully, and he had just been invited by the headmaster himself to write an article in the school newspaper. He wanted to tell his family right away. Though he was mocked and jeered by some of his classmates who viewed him as a teacher’s pet, he felt so proud to be the first nine-year-old in the history of the school to have been given this honor. He understood that an honor like this came with a price. The neighborhood boys had teased him and refused to let him join in on their games. He hadn’t asked for this, but it had happened, and he felt happy. He had skipped up the cement steps, for once not seeing them in their true state—dirty and hard, but imagining them as black onyx gemstones leading up to his family’s small apartment. As soon as he opened the door, he recoiled in surprise. His mother was weeping, her head hunched down, her usual tightly coiled chignon now a messy bun with strands sticking out. My father was shocked; he had never seen his mother cry before. She glanced up with her red, swollen eyes and pointed with a trembling finger to a piece of white, clean paper printed with gold, beautiful symbols. Even without reading the characters, my father immediately knew what it was. The paper was too bright and clean to be from anyone other than the Chinese government. His father was going to the civil war. He was already gone. *          *          * My father tried to manage his usual routine. But, without his father, he would rush home after school, almost afraid of the world now and its control over him. He had memorized the way to his apartment, and his feet could trace it without him even looking up. The truth was: he didn’t want to look up and see the real world anymore. He didn’t want to acknowledge what it had become. My father wanted a miracle. He had started spending most of his time with his doves, flying them in the abandoned woods outside of town and talking to them in the dark quiet of his home. My father had heard about amazing animals that could do things normal ones couldn’t—things such as play fetch, or jump rope, or be able to find hidden people and explosive material. Because his doves were special, he saw them as being almost magical and felt that they