My late husband John loved feathers. As a Native American performer he almost always had them on both the traditional and non-traditional outfits he would wear when dancing professionally.
Whenever he found a feather, he would bring it home. He made bouquets of feathers and would place them in vases. He would stick stray feathers into potted plants, and into my books.
John would walk up to parrots at zoos and ask them politely if they had any feathers they no longer wanted. That was amusing enough but one time a caretaker heard him. Because John was an American Indian, they gave him feathers the birds dropped.
Same with injured birds on the federal protected list. Once we were touring a wildlife rehab center and attended a demonstration showing the aid given to injured birds and mammals. The ranger had an endangered owl with a broken wing. The bottom of its cage was littered with feathers.
A young boy, about 6 years old, asked if he could have one of the feathers. The ranger, very kindly, said no, it was a protected species and it wasn’t allowed. Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked, “But do we have any Native Americans in the audience?”
John raised his hand.
The ranger explained that Indigenous Americans were exempt from that law and asked John if he wanted some of the owl feathers. Of course, my guy said yes. Before we left, John found the young boy and gave him one of the feathers. The look on that child’s face was pure joy. It doesn’t take much, does it?
Thank God it doesn’t take much.
Feathers were everywhere in our lives. We would stick them in each other's hair, dance, and watch them float and fly around us as we moved.
He used to send me photos of himself as a small boy and he would title these photos: "John BF (before feathers)."
We buried him with an eagle feather.
The August after John died, on the anniversary of the day we met, I was having a numb day. I was in Florida staring at the water. Just staring, trying not to cry. I finally let my head drop and as the tears started, I looked down. There was one perfect feather, lined up next to my foot.
I immediately thought of John. Later that night I tied it into the dream catcher I have that was made by a Navajo woman. I smiled. Genuinely smiled.
John. Feathers.
I would travel solo after his tragic death, wandering, I suppose, to get out of what was once our home, which felt like a tomb. I found myself in the desert Southwest one afternoon, standing next to my truck, unsure of what to do or where to go next. I couldn't move. Everything felt hopeless. I had one hand on the truck door handle and I froze. I sighed and looked up at the sky, sighed again and looked down. There was a feather next to my foot.
I bent down and picked it up, twirled it, and smiled. I had a lovely day just wandering the landscape and I ended up in a great place.
The next year on John’s birthday, memories were washing over me from the moment I opened my eyes that morning. Waves of sorrow threatened to pull me under. Grief is a heavy companion and it can turn on you at a moment’s notice.
I was walking to the car with my brother in step next to me.
He said quietly, "I wish John had been able to stay."
My head pounded. I dropped my face into my hands.
My tears fell into the dirt, but they weren't the only thing on the ground. Perfectly lined up by my foot was a beautiful black, white, and blue feather.
My tears stopped. I laughed out loud.
"Johnny!!!" I said with glee, "Thank you! Thank you! Happy Birthday!! I love you!!!!" I danced around the yard waving my new feather like an old hippie having a fresh flashback.
What a gift on his birthday.
Someone said, "True love has wings." Someone said, "Hope is the thing with feathers."
Love. Hope. Feathers.
And how symbolic that each was carefully by your foot--- that defies any coincidence or accident!🥰
Oh I love this so much. You found solace and beauty in your grief. I will, from now on, look at feathers as precious reminders of grief and love, but mostly love. And hope. And gratitude