A Picture, A Feather

There are many explanations for the story I am about to tell. You will have to decide which one you choose to believe. I can tell you only the facts.

I will verify that it is a true story because it happened to me.

David Ray, who painted the picture illustrating this article is my brother-in-law. The picture was painted for the cover of a children's book he wrote and illustrated called, "The Banshee." David gave me a copy of his painting before I moved six months ago.

I loved the depiction of an angel watching over a sleeping child. It evoked memories of my own belief in a guardian angel and the constant proximity of those we loved and lost in our lives. I waited until the suitcases were emptied before searching for a proper frame. Finally, several weeks ago I located exactly what I wanted. The next obstacle was having it hung in my new apartment. This morning I received a phone call from the Maintenance Department telling me they would hang the picture later in the day.

I was delighted when they finished. It looked perfect, exactly the way I had hoped.

And the timing was good. Like many families in our tangled web of modern life, our family is fractured, and this weekend marked a celebration that excluded not only me, but most of our immediate family. While life has taught me many things, I have not yet learned to eliminate sorrow about problems I cannot change. Saturday was one of those occasions. Grief seemed to wrap me in its embrace, and even a festive lunch with Will didn't erase my emotional distress.

Earlier this evening the one member of the family who had been invited to share in the celebration phoned. I was grateful for the call, but explained I was unable to discuss the event. I knew the caller understood my pain and after a loving conversation, our conversation ended.

As I crossed the room to return the phone to its cradle, I noticed something lying beneath the picture. It was a white feather that had not been there earlier in the day.

Because I suffer from severe allergies, there are no feather pillows, comforters or other items containing feathers in my home or my life. I had no visitors after the picture was hung, and the small white feather was not there before the phone call. It appeared apparently while I was speaking of my unhappiness over a tragic abyss in a once close knit and loving family. While I seldom share my emotions, I did as we discussed our fractured family.

This is just a story; however, it is a true one. It is also entirely up to you, the reader, how to interpret it. In the Celtic tradition, there is a great belief that our beloved dead do not live far away, and I know what I believe. Perhaps you do, too.