When he took all the birds with him

My mom noticed it. There were few birds around the feeder. All of the grosbeaks, the warblers, the woodpeckers had vanished the year my dad died.

“Maybe he took the birds with him,” my sister said.

My dad loved birds. I can picture him now, binoculars in hand, somewhere deep in Madera Canyon, or at the house, filling up a journal with his observations. It was interesting that he loved such ephemeral, migratory creatures when he preferred being at home best. Or maybe it was this; he understood the pull of adventure and the tug of the familiar.

On the third anniversary of his death, I walked up a trail near where I live. On his visits, my dad liked to come here. He liked to watch his favorite bird, the water ouzel, fly under the bridge and perch on the rocks by the river. He often would ask me on the phone if I had been up there to see them.

I've hiked up here every anniversary, and every time the same thing happens. I stand on the bridge and talk to my dad for awhile. I tell him I miss him, and thank him for raising us to be Adventure Girls: not exactly fearless, but more brave and determined than most people we know. For teaching us about the plants, how to balance in a canoe, how to set up a tent. For understanding our need to fly.

I ask him for a sign, for a bird. For a long time, no bird comes. I give up and start to walk away. That's when it happens, a small, dauntless ouzel, flying under the bridge.

Every Single Time.

You should probably expect to lose your parents at the ages they both were, but I wasn't prepared to lose both in less than three years. The grief is something that sits on my shoulders. I carry it with me when I try to get off the ground.

The birds never really came back to the house, so maybe they really did go with him. I like to think of it that way; him surrounded by small, unexplainable creatures, hearts and wings taking to the sky.