Dear My Faded Doves,  At first, I thought I couldn't do it. But I did. At first, I thought it would be too painful. And it was.But I did it. I did it. I wrote it all down. The story of us, the story of all of us. And as I sit here, staring down at this piece of paper, I think back to how easily the words had come to me then;How natural it felt to let the ink glide from the black gleaming pen, a swirling bird taking flight on the new sky-lined paper.I would have done anything in the world to hold that paper close, to attach it to myself and never let it go.It was a part of me. But right now, I stare at the paper. It tells the story of us. And I rip it into little tiny shreds. I let go. The wind carries my memories and emotions far away into the night sky. I watch them go, floating high above the clouds like little doves. Those doves tell the story of us. The first emotion to hit me is regret. I want them back. Come home, come home. Come back to me. Let me feel you again. Don't let me forget. But they do not come back.The little doves float higher and higher until I can no longer see them. Sadness is shoots through me, a jagged sword twisted around my stomach. I feel the pain and loss all over again if only for but a minute. Glancing at my hand, I see the one dove I could not let go. I keep it with me. Slowly and delicately I fold it up. I place into my heart, nestling it beneath the folds and gaps and scars. Here it is protected, here it is safe and warm and secret. It sits there and waits for it's brethren to come home. But they don't. Because the doves are just paper. The paper is just a memory. And the memory is just the story of us. Of all of us.  Happily, The Smallest Dove