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of shredded lettuce leaf and some corn for it to eat. At night he slept next to the bird, being very careful, keeping it warm and watching over it. This went on for quite a few days and it seemed that the dove was getting better; though the wing had closed, it was still damaged. For weeks, the bird would strut and swagger about Issi's room with increasing freedom but it didn't fly. Sal paused again to take his breath; he sipped his coffee and looked at the men around the room. The men also took a sip from their cups.

No one spoke. No one interrupted Sal; they wanted him to go on. Sal wasn't accustomed to standing in front of people and telling tales but it seemed to him that it was the right time to share Issi's story with the people who had been present during Issi's last days. The men waited while Sal gathered his thoughts and proceeded.

Issi spoke to me about the bird with true care and compassion; he was teary and said he had never felt like that before, or ever again. He said that his winged dove was like a caged lion; it couldn't become what it was born to be. He felt a deep sorrow for that little creature, Sal's voice broke slightly with emotion; pausing, he coughed to clear his throat.

One of the men, Jose Umberto, the big bearded Brazilian, shuffled uneasily on the red and black sofa near the doorway. Flicking to one side the untidy crop of thick shoulder length white hair that adorned his high-browed head, the Brazilian dragged himself to the edge of his seat. He placed his cup on the floor next to his huge feet and stood up. The big man cast a fearsome figure in his long grey coat. Standing tall at close to two meters; his stooped frame, busted by decades of alcohol and drug abuse, vacillated unsteadily forward and continued to sway as he commenced talking.

He told me that story too, Jose Umberto's words stung the silence. I believed him. I can tell when someone's honest and telling the truth. The guy was real; a real philosopher. He came back from the north so he could be near where he lived as a kid. That's what he told me. I liked him and sometimes he made me laugh and not too many people have done that for me, the Brazilian continued, pointing a big, dark finger to the ceiling. He was young, too young to die. He only turned sixty something the other day, he said, slowly swinging around to the sound of a door opening behind him.

Mrs. Bellano walked into the room where the men were gathered; she held a plate of biscuits which

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