The white bird, egret it’s called. It walks sticking its neck out with every step. Around my pond, it spends its days reminding me of heaven, and I’m not sure why.
My husband feels the same. On unsuspecting quiet mornings, the bird finds his mourning soul. He smiles while he cries, remembering the man he admired.
My father was not only paternal to me, but he told me one day, “I kind of love him”. Those words were strong, love was not a word used often. My father loved my husband, and my husband loved him too.
His 50th birthday would not pass, without the white bird and all his friends. It was a white bird convention. He cried and drove to the church, where my father’s humble memorial service had been held in a tiny room with a large bible and Jesus looking over. Only the family was there, sharing the gifts of our hearts. My husband remembered and relived it on his 50th.
Sticking his neck out, my father escaped a war-torn country to suffer homelessness and loneliness. He arrived in our country as a migratory bird. He walked tirelessly, not without aggravation to provide for his family. His neck was strong. He continued to stick it out, teaching the unteachable. We loved him, but he did not receive the applause he deserved. Like the white bird, he was always there. We counted on him but we did not cheer for him. He was a constant. And then he left.
We still feel him. And the white bird reminds us. Love never dies.
– Erika K Rothwell