Illusions

As I was running this morning, I came across a slightly ragged crow feather. I passed it, then went back the few feet to pick it up. "Bill, is that you? Talk to me." The feather remained mute. I tried to center myself and connect. Visions of quirky humor, Easter in Paris, Manhattan suites, and clinking cocktail glasses began taking form. Visions? Memories? What's the difference?

Bill died in LA 11 years and 8 days ago. I called him that morning just as I did every morning. Except on July 11, 1995, he didn't answer. I called repeatedly with the same result. I knew it couldn't be good, but it was afternoon when one of his friends called before I found out just how not good.

At that moment of bereavement, I appealed to him in whatever form he might have taken, "Bill, please give me a sign." Nothing. At least nothing until I walked out my front door and saw the owl feather standing straight up in the center of my yard.

Talk to me.