A Laughing Dove on Mother’s Day

Mother Laughing Dove

Twenty odd years since my mom Vicky passed away, Mother’s Day isn’t getting easier.

Mother, Mom, Mommy, Omm, Maman, Madre… remain for me the most beautiful words in any dictionary and language. A mother is the most precious of beings and is to be celebrated and thanked every day of the year. And it is no wonder that Mother’s Day in the Middle East falls on the same day as the beginning of Spring.

There are so many mothers to celebrate, especially those who have been losing their children in these troubled months.

But it is one mother in particular I wish to mention on this first day of Spring – a mother in nature. She is hard working, entrepreneurial, loving and caring.

The next at the top of the ladder

I spotted her home before getting to see her around two weeks ago. I got interested to catch a glimpse of who lived there. Indeed, she had built her nest overnight at the top of a four-meter heavy-duty ladder.

She is a Laughing Dove, also called a Senegal Dove, a very common pigeon in the UAE.

Much smaller than normal ones, the Laughing Dove gets its name from its characteristic calls. Their soft, drawn-out calls sound like human laughter -- ha ha hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo.

I thought Vicky would approve. She loved birds and nature in general. I always remember how one day, sitting on our balcony in London watching a group of pigeons fly by, Mom said: “How I wish I could fly like them…”

The first egg....

... and then they were two

The dove’s home is built of sticks and it took just one day to complete, in time to start her family. On the second day I spotted one white egg in the nest. On the third day there were two. The species is known to lay two white eggs.

Since then, and for 10 days, Mother Dove has been sitting on her eggs, nearly 24 hours a day. She must leave the nest at some point to feed herself, maybe in the early mornings, but I haven’t witnessed this.

I cannot help but admire the dove’s love and devotion. She sets a good example.

I look forward to seeing her offspring and watching them grow and fly the nest.

Mother’s Day cannot pass without listening to Marcel Khalife’s “Ommi,” written by Mahmoud Darwish and dedicated this year to Palestinian and Syrian mothers:

Related posts:

Vicky: My mother, my child… -- January 31, 2012

Dearest Mom… -- March 21, 2011

Dearest Mom…

Mom Victoria, always ready for a laugh

It’s Mother’s Day, and although my Mom, Vicky, has been gone for nearly 19 years now, it seems like only yesterday. It’s still a day to rejoice for all the good times and the less memorable ones and say a prayer.

Mother, Mom, Mommy, Omm, Maman, Madre… is the most beautiful word in any dictionary and language. A mother is the most precious of beings and is to be constantly celebrated.

The first thing I thought and said when Mom left us on that inauspicious day in May 1992 was, “What will I do without you?” It’s a question I still ask myself every day.

It is often said the saddest act for a parent is to bury a child. I have done both.

You see, the relationship with Vicky, until a fateful day in June 1984, was never easy. She was a strong, opinionated, dynamic, fun, sociable and much loved character. She was bigger than life itself and you were both charmed and dwarfed in her presence.

Of course we had our fights, differences and disagreements. Some were short-lived, others lasted for months. But going through the Lebanon civil war, we learned to live, let live and get along.

All that changed in June 1984. While I was visiting my sister Asma in Cannes, Mom had an aneurysm and by the time I made my way back to Beirut by plane to Damascus and then by road, because Beirut airport was closed, Mom had slipped into a coma.

For five weeks, I talked myself dry around the clock, prodding her to wake up. Then one morning -- after pleading with her to be strong and wake up, I was telling her what was happening and that her niece Dalal had just called to ask about her -- Mom, batted her eyelids and opened her eyes, which were still as violet as before.

And that’s when, after five weeks of hope and answered prayers, all the hard work and rehabilitation began and our world got a big knock on the head. From having a mother, I now had a child who I had to teach how to move, walk and do everything all over again. Although the effects of the aneurysm and coma had only affected her recent memory, the physical effects were everlasting.

I am not maternal, so this was an experience! It was not a role I wanted and yet had to accept and assume. Those tales and years are more suited for other posts. This one is to cheer Mother’s Day.

September 1984, a couple of months after Mom's five-week coma

Dearest Mom,

I long to bury my hand between your breasts and snuggle up and smell your sweet scent. And each time I look in the mirror, it is your image that I see looking back at me.

I thank you for bringing me up so well and teaching me love, patience, tolerance, good manners, politeness, respect and so many other virtues.

I salute your courage through eight long years of illness and know that you are now at peace and looking down on us and keeping us safe.

What do I do without you? I’m trying my best to travel, as bravely as you did, on life’s journey. I fall down often, but get up and start all over again.

Dearest Mom, Happy Mother’s Day. You are always with me

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This post is dedicated to Mita Ray (@Mita56). Today, Mita celebrates Mother’s Day after being reunited with her son Partha Srinivasian (@parthans) after many long years.

And Mother’s Day cannot pass without listening to Marcel Khalife’s “Ommi.”