In all my sixty years it has never come close to happening before. I held a bright red cardinal in my hand.

He bit me.

He was frantically flying around the dining room, bashing against the window. I stepped closer to shoo him to the door I had propped open but he didn't move. So I picked him up. I looked in his fierce eyes. His heart was racing as I gently carried him to the door and set him free. He swooped across the yard, his yard, back to the territory where he is king. I cried.

I own four coops full of fluttering chickens, and every day I pick some up. In the course of nudging them to roost, or just to feel their softness, to say hello, or clean their toenails,  or to feed them treats I have the honor of holding my birds. My birds. Ha. They might have a different take on that ownership thing. 

Cardinals have long been a symbol for my parents. The ones who are gone. The ones who are no longer mine. Because how can you claim proprietary rights on an angel or two?

My Christmas card last winter featured a cardinal, as a wave to the father and mother who flew through this life with fierce and gentle love for their children. Their God. Each other. Now they are free of the illnesses and concerns that tethered their souls. 

But today I remembered my father's love. I could feel the throb of his heartbeat.