a cardinal

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 Chipo. I wonder if she could have ever imagined that the silly stuffed cheetah who’s actually a leopard 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.