It was a Pigeon
I made the call. Because of a pigeon. And a windowsill. It wasn't even a real pigeon. Nor a real windowsill. It was in the book I was reading. A pigeon cooed on the windowsill, it said. It puffed up its body, marched back and forth, and took flight. A mental image immediately took shape in my mind, of a fat, grey, beady-eyed pigeon, and a windowsill. Not just any windowsill, but one particular windowsill. How one word could make a difference. Without the "windowsill" the phrase would probably have gone unnoticed. As it was, it made me stop, and the pictures reappeared, certain images, certain memories. A pigeon, a room. Winter without snow. A face. And suddenly the pictures were complete. In less than a second. And next thing I knew, I reached for the phone and made the call.
