I saw him come into the world as a little boy with a cry softer than expected, his mother surrounded by women who love her, but without his father. As if it were a sign that she would have to learn to love him on her own, that she would have to learn to be both father and mother, that he would have to learn to live and grow up without his father’s presence.
The feather…
Little man laughing at everything and nothing, having fun by the water, on the sand, full of energy. A little boy full of wisdom who listened to Mom with eyes brimming with endless admiration for her. I hadn’t seen him in so long, little boy; his pretty little face bore no resemblance to his mother’s except for a tiny dimple that you could only notice if you looked closely. Apparently, he looked a lot like Dad. Dad, who a year earlier hadn’t been able to go on living; Dad, who had lost the battle against the demons in his head. Dad, who was in heaven, according to the little guy. Behind his gentle, childlike features lay such maturity—as if an old soul had been hidden inside a tiny body barely as tall as three apples…
The little man was simply playing with me outdoors, running, whirling, flitting about on the fresh grass. The little man and I looked up at the sky at the same moment. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, instantly catching our attention: a shiny, jet-black feather was twirling above our heads.
The little guy was hopping up and down, letting out cries of joy that I initially attributed simply to a child—little cries that, at first glance, seemed like the expression of a kid’s wonder. It was such a beautiful sight! A few seconds later, before my adult eyes—somewhat worried about germs—Little Man, feather in hand, uttered a phrase that moved me more than I expected, more than my eyes, suddenly brimming with tears, could contain. In a voice that was both high-pitched and almost a whisper, the little boy whispered to me in one breath: “It’s an angel’s feather—a feather from Daddy the angel.”
With my germ fears cast aside and my heart in pieces, I asked the little boy if he wanted to tell me about it. He told me in a barely audible voice that Daddy had sent him this feather from up in heaven to tell him he’d been good today.
After a hug that was probably more comforting for me than for him, I watched him walk away, skipping along, the feather firmly clamped between the thumb and index finger of his little hand, a smile on his lips, calling out the name of his one and only: “Mommy!”
This little boy, despite his young age, is experiencing a grief that even adults aren’t prepared for: the loss of a dad. This little boy sees in a feather the comfort of a presence. As beautiful as the image may be, from my adult perspective I couldn’t ignore, perched high on the tallest tree, that bird of ill omen distributing its feathers with bittersweet consequences.
If you need help, if life seems to be slipping away from you: 1-866-CALL and remember that there are people who care about you and that a feather will never replace a father’s embrace...