 AN ESSAY ABOUT
GRIEF, REASSURANCE, CEREMONY, AND MOVING ON Text and photo by Ron Reason, July 12, 1999 In Memory of Gray McGhee In more than two years I never knew a bird to fly into my house. It would be quite the feat, with balconies or awnings sheltering every door - doors that are never kept open for fear of letting the A/C out - and a narrow chimney that rises two stories from a fireplace totally covered by a wire screen. So how odd it was to wake up on not one but two mornings last month to find that a bird had somehow flown in during the night and gotten trapped in my sun room. There it was, banging against a high window pane, struggling into the bright morning sky. Even the dog, normally on high alert for any intruder, was left sort of speechless, both times. The first appearance was a month shy of the anniversary of Gray's death. I didn't think much about it, just got an old bath towel, carefully wrapped the bird, and set it free out the front door. I had too much on my mind to worry about it much longer. The second visit was two weeks later. Same window, same time of day, same towel, same flight path across the yard when set free. Could it have even been the same bird? Someone told me it might be a chimney swift, known for flying into houses like this. But it just seemed so strange, and at this point I had to wonder, might this be a sign from Gray's spirit? I had received several signs already, I was absolutely certain, so another wouldn't surprise me. Maybe this captive bird was urging me to move on and finally set Gray free - to get on with the business of scattering his ashes that I'd been harboring in the house since last July. Last summer, on his deathbed, we danced around the practicalities I'd eventually have to deal with. I'd promised to take his ashes to the Gulf (and vowed to join him there someday myself). Who is ready to deal with questions like these at 35? And who knows when the time is right for such ceremony, for letting go? Certainly the one-year anniversary of his death was a logical option. Moreover, the closing on the sale of our house was just weeks away, and I would then move away to a new job and a new life. Life was moving on. But, even though I long ago accepted that the ashes weren't ''him,'' just something shed by his soul and left behind, was I quite ready to let go? Gray's spirit had spoken to me before, I was sure. In the hospital, during the frantic time when we realized the doctors' promises were empty and our hope was false, that leukemia would kill him, I asked if after he died, could he please send me some indication that his spirit was okay - something, anything, ''maybe make the wind chimes sing on the balcony outside our bedroom.'' Heavily drugged, he nodded frailly; who knew if he really understood. A week after his death, I was up late writing his eulogy, and in the most still night air one can imagine, the chimes went off. The story, told during his memorial service, provided comfort to many friends and family. But there was more to come. In mid-December, I was in a funk about whether to bother decorating our overly large house for Christmas, my first holiday alone in years. I'd always loved the festive stuff, more so than Gray, and I had always been the one in charge of the decorating. He'd sort of roll his eyes, maybe help string a few strands of lights, but then flee to the kitchen baking biscuits or bread. So much more practical. But as much as I hated the thought of this Christmas alone, I hated even more the thought of Christmas alone in a barren house. The decorating had to happen. I spent about a week setting up our old artificial tree, decorating it, setting out candles. A little bit every day, a good strategy that did cheer me. Then one Wednesday came the big challenge - stringing lights on the many shrubs in front of the house, including the 18-foot Italian cypress spires that are like exclamation marks in our landscape. I feared trying to reach the tops of the trees, but amazingly, our tallest friend, Martin, had the night off, and was willing to stop over and help do the high stuff! I wasn't, after all, totally alone. It was a strange night with a full moon and thick, low clouds that flew by sporadically, but quickly, in bunches. Martin stood dangerously high on a metal ladder, with me safely on the ground directing the last lights to be placed ''just so.'' At once, in the sky just above and behind him, appeared the most startling sight. Speechless, I motioned for Martin to stop his handiwork and look to the sky (I needed a witness!) - above us, unmistakably, was the most distinct outline of an angel in the clouds. The hair, the gown, especially the wings, full and outstretched, all were clearly there (if you subscribe to the traditional view of angels, I suppose). All of it was in fantastic, unreal detail. Brush strokes. Only an artist could have created that sight in the clouds. Only an artist. Without saying what I thought I saw, Martin knew what it was. Selfishly, I theorized that Gray was contributing his own decoration, and giving me a thumbs-up for my decision to move on with my holiday shenanigans (and simply, move on). But how strange that on this night of fast-moving clouds, this particular vision hung in the sky for a good 10 minutes, and only then, slowly dissipated. Other signs would come. Flocks of wild birds, especially mourning doves, appearing at our patio on key dates, or watching me through a bedroom window. A gardenia tree, planted in his honor but stubbornly refusing to bloom, suddenly sending out blossoms the morning after I prayed for reassurance about my decision to move. A contract on our house appearing in the nick of time, hours before I had to respond to another offer - eureka! The house will go to a great family we both knew from our old street. Gray used to fix their kids' Macintosh when it would freeze up - even they think Gray is guiding the deal from above! Am I insane? Is all this coincidence or imagination? Or have I just listened and watched when I needed to, and stayed open to all possibilities? Ultimately, the bird trapped in my house confirmed for me that the time had come to part with the ashes, of both Gray and our dear old dog Gabbie who died three months before him. Out into the Gulf I went, for a ceremony that turned out as private as his memorial service, one year before, was public. The afternoon was a little breezy, mostly sunny, with some haze and clouds, but in July in Florida, one is grateful for that. The seas were fairly calm about four miles offshore. The boat's engine stopped, poems were read silently as songs were played on a little boombox (yes, including ''Angel,'' the Sarah McLachlan song I chose for the service a year ago, long before it became the omnipresent hit that either comforted or tormented all of us this year). A mile or so away, an osprey circled lazily on the high winds. Slowly and tearfully, the ashes were given back to the sea, as promised: first Gabbie, then Gray, along with two dried blossoms from the gardenia tree (I knew it would be too hot to bloom in July, so I had saved them), a cream-colored rose from a fresh bouquet that's now ripening in our dining room, and pages from the memorial booklet I created for his service last year. I cried as I watched the papers drift off to the west, never sinking, with their poems, reminiscences, my ''official'' obituary for Gray, the photo of his angelic smile on the cover. What odd things to send off in the waves! On the CD player, my last song (''King of May,'' from Natalie Merchant's ''Ophelia'') drew to a close: ''Farewell today, travel on now, be on your way/Suddenly, my co-pilot, comforting, kind, and also sent to me by Gray (but that's another essay), told me to look to the sky. The once- drifting osprey was much closer now, flying surely and steadily toward the boat, not too far above the water. Its flight struck me as an Air Force salute - graceful but mighty, purposeful, clear, a silhouette in a straight line against the sun. (A photo of the bird just as it flew overhead is at the top of this page.) Out of hundreds of square miles of Gulf, was this coincidence that this beautiful bird, so far off shore, directly crossed the path of our boat, at the same instant the ashes and mementos drifted off and the music came to a close? I can't believe it was chance. ''It's easier to believe/On shore a few hours later, at sunset, my mission is complete with a swim in the waves off St. Pete Beach. Now the warm water feels different, tastes saltier and at the same time sweeter than it ever did. Strange! Comforting. As intended, every time I (and you) look on or swim in the body of water that surrounds this place we lived, I (and you) will think of him. I close my eyes, dive under the surface, and recall the poem, by Walt Whitman, that I took to sea and read earlier that day:
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