The Dove
“Art, like all rescue ships, is a shape-shifting ghost whose appearance depends on what we lack and what we long for.” — Enriqué Martinez Celaya
Essay by Karen Kasaba
“Look.” My daughter, Kela, pointed toward the windshield of our rental car as we hugged the uphill curves of Mont Smith Drive, on the way to Spaulding House Museum in Honolulu. “There’s a bird.”
“Where?”
“On the car.”
I glanced again and now, quite obvious — a small dove nestled in the windshield-wiper well, tucked in behind the hood.
“Oh, wow.” He’d been there since we parked on Kinau Street, behind the Honolulu Museum of Art. “He must have fallen from a tree.”
I drove up the winding road, mindful of our passenger, fearful any curve or breeze could eject him into the street. There was no place to pull over on the steep, narrow road that wound all the way up Mt. Tantalus.
“He’s a baby,” Kela said. “He probably can’t fly. Don’t let him fall off!”
Keeping an eye on the bird, I slowly navigated into the parking lot of the museum, which was nearly empty.
We got out of the car, and checked on the dove.
“What should we do?” Kela asked.
