A cardinal sat outside my window this morning, singing a song I didn’t recognize. That means Grandma Hazel hasn’t forgotten to check in on me. 

She lives in every cardinal I see. Whenever one catches my eye, I have to stop and give it a quiet hello. A fellow human being should never expect to receive a greeting from me, but a distant descendant of dinosaurs always will. 

Grandma Hazel has been gone for nearly five years. Yet every Thursday, without fail, I record a voicemail for her. In some ways, these little messages are the only pieces of evidence that I even have a voice. 

These messages are not profound—nothing in my life is. I just do them to let her know that I’m ok.

Not good. Not bad. Simply ok. 

I tell her about my “adventures” with Waverley White. I wonder if she could have ever imagined that the silly stuffed white bunny rabbit that she gave me on my third birthday would still be my closest friend over 25 years later. 

I’m sure she didn’t, but I like to think that it wouldn’t matter to her. More than anything, I’m sure that she’s just happy that I’m not totally alone.