The Cardinal

She was 81 when she passed. For the last ten years, I was losing her every day to a disease that was not letting her go or stay. 

The worst part of her death was that she died alone, even though I was there holding her hand as she took her last breath. 

I remember the first time she forgot my name or who I was. She gave birth to me, yet she was not my mother any longer. Behind her kind eyes was a decaying brain, slowly losing identity, personality, memory, and life. 

A few days ago, I was sitting at the edge of her bed, looking out the window, lost in thoughts of how strange life can be. In that little hospital room, life was ending, but just beyond the walls, no one seemed to care for my pain. The birds didn’t stop their song, the trees hugged the sky, and the clouds circled the earth. 

In that moment of solemn silence, I heard a voice that I had not heard in years: “Marianne, when I go, I will send you a cardinal from heaven.” I inched closer, my heart pounding into a million pieces. I put her hand in mine the way she did decades ago on my first day of school. Back then, I thought my life would end if I let go of my mother’s hand, and today, that fear was reversed.

As I walked alone through the autumn fields back from the cemetery, I saw it. A bright red bird stood in my path in the middle of the rugged leaves,

chirping happy songs and fluttering its wings. I opened my hand to welcome it as it circled me, and it nestled into the palm of my hand.

She made it to heaven.