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.