After my father died, I noticed bright red male cardinals on walks along the creek, perched on a fence post as I checked the mailbox. Perhaps they were always there, but they came to mean something to me — that my dad was present and accompanying me still on my journey. I have known of other ancestors appearing with a similar message and messenger, whether owls, bluejays, or recently, deer. I am drawn to the eternal possibility that guides us out of loss. Loss of loved ones, of an imagined life, of a dream. Something of that lost life stays planted within us.

What I thought I knew – friendship,

love, truth – I added to the bonfire.

We watched the paper catch, curl,

then float up in bits of ash and

smoke.  We imagined a new life.

The  phoenix is born again of

its ashes.  Now I hold my father’s

ashes, cold and chalky, weightless

in my hand, similar to the cigarette

ashes that led him there.  

What will arise from them?  

And then I see, in a burst of light.

The cardinal flashes by.