Where Do the Doves Go? , by Marc Dion

On Wednesday, I went to a 9/11 memorial in the midsized city where I work as a reporter.

I went with a notebook and a pen, in khakis and a blue-striped dress shirt and loafers, the image of the never-changing, interchangeable reporter who hovers at the edges of every public event, like a crow waiting to peck a carcass.

There was a rabbi, a priest and a minister, but though the joke insists they do, they did not walk into a bar. They prayed. The rabbi prayed in Hebrew, words thousands of years old.

I've been working here a long time. Some of the men in the fire department honor guard were men I drink with, but their mouths were not loose around a joke today, not sipping at a glass of beer.

The elected spoke, too, state reps tossing the word "hero" out like you'd toss a quarter tip at a bartender.

And the flag rolled lazily in a slight wind from the west, and a band played "God Bless America."

There's a man who brings doves to these events, to military funerals and memorials. They release the doves at the end of the ceremonies, the way they sometimes do at weddings.

At the event I attended, the doves were given to the men of the honor guard, one dove per man.

And, through the last minutes of the memorial, the doves rested in the uncomfortable, gloved grasp of a firefighter standing at attention.

Doves do not nest in men's hands, so the birds were uncomfortable, rolling their small eyes, shifting their weight a little. Sometimes, one of the doves would move suddenly, as if to fly away, and the firefighter would move his hands quickly, holding the dove more securely. I watched one firefighter endlessly stroke his dove, the way you'd pet a cat, the firefighter's gloved thumb moving back and forth over the small head.

I've seen the man and his doves at dozens of events, always sad events, and I never ask him where the doves go when they are released. I hope they go home, as I do after these ceremonies, to a mouthful of corn and a pretty, dovish wife.

And as they played "Taps," at some signal I didn't see, the firefighters of the honor guard, one at a time, released their doves.

And the doves, suddenly free, flapped their wings crazily for a second, then caught their rhythm and rose, swiftly, into a very blue sky. Most people in the crowd watched the doves go, dozens of heads looking up and turning with the birds until the doves vanished under a highway overpass.

And it was done.

The state reps went back to their offices. I went to write. The firefighters went back to the firehouses. The younger people in the crowd went to work. The old Korean War veterans went home and put their American Legion caps back in the top dresser drawer.

And the doves were up in the high, clean air.

Where do the doves go when it's over?

They fly to Benghazi in the bright morning light.