A pigeon's funeral

It was nine o’clock in the morning, and we were eating lukewarm homemade granola (it is actually better after it cools a little, when it has achieved its crunch) until *SMACK* a sudden noise shook the window.

We found a pigeon, motionless on our terrace. Beautiful, yet painful. We buried it in the garden, placed a flower on its chest, and lit a candle above it. In that moment, the simple act of marking its passing became a form of ritual. Not one prescribed by tradition, but a small attention to life and death.

Returning to breakfast, the granola tasted different.