I attended a lovely Independence Day gathering earlier this week five houses down the street. While all of the guests were from our neighborhood, there were several people there I've not had a conversation with lately. It was a lovely to catch up.

​More than one person asked me how I'm faring. I expected that. It wasn't a case of nosiness. There was no judgement intended. I don't think so, anyway. I answered, talking about a weekend away in early June, plans to attend a family baby shower later this month. And, I learned about vacations, adventures with grandchildren, book recommendations. Plus, the food was outstanding! I'm so glad I went.

​Since then, the oft-repeated question has come back to mind, though. How am I faring?

​I'm OK. This bereavement isn't for the faint of heart, that's for certain. I'm realizing that the sadness I am feeling is always going to be with me. Life with Tal was finer than either of us realized, and I miss the way things used to be.

​In some ways the sadness is stronger than it was right after Tal's death. What has changed is the acute nature of the pain. It no longer has that exquisite, piercing, breath-taking quality it did early on. Now, it's a steady presence, heavier at times than others.

​I am also realizing that I have choices -- of all sorts. What, and when, to eat, whether to keep the house, if to push for gainful employment, where I might like to travel, how to observe the next round of holidays. It makes my head spin.

Other choices are more subtle. And, likely more important. I can pick up the camera. I can get up early -- write, walk, weed. I can schedule outings. I can be the initiator of conversations with friends rather than waiting to be called.

I can choose whether to let the sadness dictate how I feel and what I do. In fact, that might be my most important conclusion so far. With a deliberate and deep breath I can choose to lay it aside, if for only an hour or just a few minutes, whatever I can manage. The sadness doesn't have to be all there is.

​So, now what?

Who am I going to be? How am I going to act? What am I doing to do?

I get to choose.

I know it sounds silly, but it didn't take long once Tal died that I began needing him to appear in some way. To make himself known. For comfort. More importantly, for reassurance. As much as we both understood what was coming for him and for us as the ALS progressed and as ready as we strived to be, his being gone was sudden and final and devastating.  And so, I longed ... longed for something. Where are you?, I would wonder. Are you still somewhere?

​Tal's favorite bird was the red tail hawk.  Early in our relationship I learned that watching the roadside and trees along a route was part of travel for Tal. He began pointing out hawks. I became good at spotting them.

​So, you know what I'm going to say, I presume.  One week to the day of Tal's death, I was headed to the mailbox. A commotion in the oak tree at the head of the drive and suddenly a Cooper's hawk followed closely by an irritated mocking bird erupted into view.  The mocking bird went off; the hawk lingered, circling over my head, ascending slowly until it caught an air current and sailed, its wings still and outstretched, until it was out of my sight. Oh, thank you.

​That was only the first sighting.  More days than not they appear, hawks most of them small, none of them red tails, swooping across my path, emitting a signature scream in the distance and staying put until my walk takes me near enough for me to spot it, a pair doing a tag team progression up the second fairway, perch to perch, making eye contact as I pass by.  Each and every one of them, of course, is spoken to and thanked and called Tal.

​Scientific? Not in the least. Theologically sound? Not likely. A balm to my battered spirit? Like none other.

​Hope I see you tomorrow, dearest.