I believe in omens. 

The weathered wreath hanging alone on my family's back porch reminded me painfully of the solace that had been ripped from my helpless hands by the death of my Grandma and Grandpa.  Endless flowers and cards sent by condoling loved ones were supposed to help glue the tattered pieces of our lives back together but had since withered with time or gotten lost in the clutter of everyday life. I'm sure our house guests couldn't understand why the wreath with its brittle sticks and brown tinged leaves hadn't joined the other plants in the garbage, and on some level we couldn't explain it ourselves.  Maybe it symbolized our inability to let go, or we simply couldn't bear to offend their donator, but it remained far past its expiration date.

I remember a certain spring morning, the kind that's unusually peaceful and can only be honored by open windows, when my father seemed particularly joyful.  A mother bird had laid her eggs in the clutches of a fragile nest tucked inside the wreath. To the average passersby it would have been ordinary or even as a messy nuisance, but through my eyes had special significance.  It was a privilege to know that she trusted our seemingly meaningless decoration to hold what to her was most precious. Never considering myself a necessarily religious person, I credit my instinct that this was some kind of sign to pure, undeniable fate.  I was reminded that life is a continuous renewal of what seems to have been lost. The beauty and mystery of existence for me came in the form of two trembling baby birds whose vulnerability would someday be replaced by courage and adulthood. 

Though no kind words and prayers had the power to bring the kind of tangible closure I so desperately longed for, a delicate reminder from the universe regarding the circle of life could. I believe that the essence of a spirit lives on through omens sent to heal and rebuild meaning for those who are left behind. Like my soul finally getting permission to acknowledge my Grandparents memory and rest assured that a higher being would hold them, as the nest did the new lives, with stability and permanence. Simple things in nature can serve as enlightening metaphors containing deeper purpose in our complicated and too often mangled lives, and when birds sing, I sometimes wonder who will be blessed by their presence. This I believe.