The second my brother saw what was inside, he stopped laughing.
Those pigeons were his life.
He called them his « flying letters. »
When Ryan and I were kids, Grandpa would take us into the loft and show us how to hold them.
« Firm enough that they feel safe, » he’d say, guiding my hands around a bird’s body. « Gentle enough that they know they can trust you. »
Ryan would usually lose interest after ten minutes.
He called them his « flying letters. »
I didn’t.
I loved watching Grandpa check the bands on their legs and write numbers in his little notebooks.
Most of all, I loved release days, when the pigeons burst from their carriers and found their way home.
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