She looked at the dove she held in her hand. The white bird fluttered its wings as if begging to be freed. She had held it captive all these years; letting it go now was difficult. She had fed it lovingly every day with the choicest of grains; sometimes an occasional fruit if she was in the mood for an indulgence. But today, as she opened the cage, and held it in her hand, it still wanted to be free – this was how loyal it could be?
So much for emotions, she sighed.
She thought of all the times she had sung to it. She had even read out passages from Macbeth, enacting little bits, to keep it entertained. It would flap its wings when she'd dance and shake its head in a rhythm when she'd sing. She had shared with it, her joys and her sorrows. She'd imagined it understood everything that she'd say. It would turn round and round on its perch if she was sad, it seemed that it was sad too. It would jump from its little swing to the door of the cage and back and keep repeating it, when she was happy, and she thought that it shared in her happiness. So why did it seem so eager to fly away now? She would never know.
But now it wanted to go and she wouldn't stop it. It was free to do its bidding. She looked at it one last time and then lifted her hand high above her head and put it out of the window, and then she unclasped her hold over the bird. It hovered outside her window for a few minutes before flying away forever.
Somehow, it was she who finally felt free.
