An Excerpt from "The Cardinal"

I lay in the bed, steeped in self-pity. Angered that I could not bury or mourn my dog. Angered I had survived. I lay there refusing food or drink. I lay there plotting my own demise when I recovered.

I read little and replied to none of the cards or well wishes I received. In short, I was miserable.

"What is that damn tapping noise? Can't you keep it quiet around here?" I yelled. ... The noise never seemed to occur when she was near. It came sporadically. Just a soft tapping as if something wished to gain admission.

Each morning, I awoke to the tapping. I was able to move around in a walker. When I viewed the bathroom window, there was nothing there. I searched each corner of the room, investigating closets, drawers, scanning the curtains. Perhaps the wind had rustled them. But there was nothing that could account for the sound.

I [was] determined to find the source. I had just finished showering when the sound erupted again. But this time I was right there in the bathroom. There, perched on the windowsill, was a brilliant, red cardinal. It rapped its beak upon the glass, then cocked its head and looked at me with quizzical eyes. It turned its head left, then right, but always those smiling, inquiring eyes stared back at me. I walked nearer the window expecting it to fly away. It did not. Instead, it tapped again as if knocking on a door, insistent that it be admitted. It did not hurry away.

It amazed me that this tiny bird had the courage to remain at the window even when I was just inches away. It stared at me as if it knew me. Just a red cardinal, but it came every day.

When I went downstairs for meals, the cardinal came to the rear window and sat on the crossbars, tapping on the window. There was no mistaking its intent. It wanted to enter the house.

On afternoon, I closed off the bedroom door and cracked the window ajar. The cardinal ... flew directly into the bedroom as if it knew exactly where it was going.

I have always slept on the right and Virginia on the left but this bird flew directly to the spot where Nikki [my beloved dog who had recently died] used to sleep. It hopped about and stood looking at me as I entered the room. I could have reached out and touched it, so still was that feathered breast. Then, as quickly as it entered, it flew out the open window and across the yard, disappearing into the trees.

The cardinal came every day, and on those days when I opened the window, it flew directly to the place where Nikki had laid. It perched on the comforter and stared with its head cocked and those questioning eyes as if it were a child awed by a sorceror. In time, I sat on the bed where it perched and at times, it even hopped upon my leg, looking up at me as if to say: "Don't you know me? I'm Nikki." Perhaps she was Nikki. Nikki, in another life, another form. Nikki, not dead at all, but risen in another spirit that filled the air with flight and song. If Nikki could live in yet another form, who was I to wrest life from myself and cast it away? Where would I go? What would I become? If this bird were Nikki, then life did not end with death. No, it continued, ad infinitum, into space and dimension and perhaps, with the same pain I felt on earth.

The cardinal continued to visit periodically over the course of five summers, sometimes at the upstairs windows and other times at the rear door. It would not enter a downstairs window, only the bedroom. I often wondered where it went on days I did not see it, but that question was never answered. Toward the last days of summer, it flew to my bed and perched there. It tilted its head and stared directly at me. I extended my left hand. It hopped upon it. Then, I enclosed it with the right hand so that it lay within the cup of my grasp.

I recalled that God protects all creatures as He tends us. It called to mind meaningful words. So as I held that tiny life in my shaking hands, I mouthed the words: The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. Like the cardinal, my wife appeared daily. She tended me, provided company. When I needed to be nursed, she tended my wound. When I slept, she watched over me. At night I heard her praying and knew she prayed for me.

In the fifth year, I was declared cancer-free. The cardinal had come every summer for five years. And, like the cardinal, my loyal wife had been there tending me. To celebrate, I purchased expensive champagne for us and special birdseed for my little friend. And my little friend came. It flew to the upstairs window and tapped on the glass. I admitted it and, as was always the case, it flew to the center of the bed where Nikki had laid. Virginia joined me.

It came, unafraid, to restore my faither, to give me purpose, to appreciate the wonderful woman who loved me. It came as a symbol of love, to confirm the beauty in the smallest and simplest of creatures. It flew to where Nikki used to snuggle between us, cocked its head, it inquiring eyes staring back at me. He restoreth my soul ... surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. ...

"I don't think it will come any more," I whispered.

"Why not? He's come for five years." She answered while watching the bird.

"He's done his work. He had something to teach me. To appreciate love when it is mine. No, I think he will go now."

I was right. The cardinal stayed a little while with us that day. Then it alighted on the windowsill and pecked on the window to be free. ... I understood then. He was saying goodbye.

Copyright 2006 by Russell A. Vassallo