Small dove tattoo on an ankle

Sorry for the scrawl, I'm writing this on the back of a drug chart at the nurses' station because the kettle has only just boiled and the ward has gone quiet in the way it does around four. You will not believe what came in through the fire door at half eleven. A dove. Not a pigeon, a proper pale grey dove, with a dark smudge at the throat, and it flew straight up to the ceiling light as if it had an appointment.

Mr Haddow in bed nine swore it was a message. He has been a lost cause since Tuesday, refusing his porridge and talking to the radiator, so I let him have his theory. He said his late wife kept doves on the allotment and that they only come in when someone is about to be looked after. I told him that sounded like the sort of thing you'd say to get a second biscuit.

Then the bird settled on the curtain rail above the sluice and sat there, perfectly still, for nearly an hour. Nobody wanted to be the one to shoo it out. At half three I stood on a step stool with a clean towel and it let me lift it, light as a folded glove, and I carried it down to the car park gate and opened my hands. It went up over the bins in one long stroke, dipping and turning, and I stood there in my clogs like a fool until it was gone.

When I came back up, Mr Haddow was awake. He asked if it had gone. I said yes. He said good, now he could sleep. I'm writing this down so I remember that he did.

Love, Ruth