A few weeks ago, after saying goodbye to my little Chihuahua, Allie, I was sitting quietly at home when an unexpected visitor stopped by my window.
Now, before I tell you about the visitor, I should probably explain something.
Birds and I are already on fairly familiar terms.
A pair of House Sparrows built a nest this spring in a ventilation outlet just outside my apartment on the third floor. For weeks, they came and went carrying bits of grass, feathers, and whatever else sparrows use when decorating a nursery. Not long ago, the young ones finally fledged. For several days afterward, the babies could often be seen perched nearby and on my windowsill itself, fluttering their wings and loudly demanding food as though they had never been fed a meal in their lives.
As a result, birds visit my windowsill rather regularly.
Sparrows stop by.
Finches stop by.
Occasionally a woodpecker appears, drilling in the bricks and mortar for insects, spiders, and insect pupae hiding in the crevices. they inspect it all with great seriousness.
Birds come and go so often that seeing one outside my window or on my window ledge is hardly unusual.
But on that particular morning, it was different.
It was not a sparrow.
It was not a finch.
And it certainly was not a woodpecker.
It was a Cardinal. A male Cardinal. Bright red and impossible to miss.
He landed on the sill just outside my window where I sit and write all day, and remained there for a few moments, looking in as though he had arrived on official business.
I remember stopping what I was doing and simply watching him as we were eye-to-eye for what seemed like several moments
Other than that, there was nothing remarkable about the encounter itself. Birds land on windowsills every day. Yet something about the moment felt different. Perhaps it was the timing. Perhaps it was because I had been thinking about Allie that morning, missing our morning walks together. Perhaps it was simply because a Cardinal had never landed on my windowsill before. Or since.
Whatever the reason, the little fellow had my attention.
Later, when I mentioned the visit to a few friends, several immediately responded with a familiar piece of folklore.
“Oh,” they said. “That’s a loved one coming to visit.”
I had heard the saying before, along with the one about feathers, though I had never given it much thought.
As it turns out, the belief is surprisingly widespread.
For generations, people in different parts of the country have shared stories about Cardinals appearing after the loss of a family member, friend, or beloved pet. Some say Cardinals carry messages. Others say they are reminders. Some simply see them as signs that those we love are never entirely gone from our hearts.
Of course, not everyone believes such things. Some would say a Cardinal is simply a Cardinal. A beautiful bird happened to land on a windowsill at a particular moment, and nothing more.
That is certainly possible.
Yet what interests me most is not whether the stories can be proven.
It is that they continue to be told.
Generation after generation, people keep sharing them.
Perhaps that is because grief has always left people searching for comfort. Perhaps it is because nature occasionally provides moments that feel larger than themselves. Or perhaps we simply like believing that the people and pets we have loved leave behind more than memories.
Whatever the reason, the old stories endure. And maybe that is reason enough to tell them.
Whether Cardinals truly carry messages, I cannot say.
I only know that on a difficult morning, one stopped by my window.
And I was glad for the visit.
Till next time then —
Jim (and Red!)
Images have been created for this piece with the assistance of AI . . . lovingly prepared and styled for Honey Hill Country and the world of Little Red Bear.
James Milson - The Writing Pages 