Ode to the Owl I Rarely See

A dirt road in a city park.

To my left, a trickle of a creek; to my right, a rise of trees—maple, hawthorn, and oak. Also, hemlock. Since my husband’s death, I’ve been filled with loneliness. These easy, slow-moving walks in the park grant me solace, help take the edge off.

Today is a lucky day:

I see him, pint-sized and fluffy, perched in the hawthorn tree. An Eastern Screech Owl. Feathery ears, dark yellow eyes. I slow my pace along the path, tiptoeing along the curving path. He blends seamlessly into the gray-and-brown trunk of the tree. Upright. Noble. Sitting in the edge of the hollow. Flicking his big eyes open, then closed. Cocking his downy head both toward and away from me.

Is he ready to fly off and hunt for his dinner? Poised to lay hold of a Greenhouse frog, or a firefly? Preparing to swoop down on an unsuspecting Red Milkweed beetle in the underbrush?

It’s late afternoon on an overcast, windy autumn day. Close to dusk.

When I was a baby, my parents gave me the curious nickname of “Grandmother Owl.”

Whenever I asked them why, they’d merely shrug and say, “You were so adorable.” I know I had big eyes—reminiscent, perhaps, of owl-eyes, which face forward like humans rather than out to the side like most birds. I had delicate wisps of hair until I was two years old—did they resemble owl feathers? Or was it my little round body that made me seem owlish to my young parents?

In ancient Athens, owls were associated with the Greek goddess Athena, a symbol of wisdom. The Lakota believe owls to be embodied spirits of the dead. Japanese and Chinese cultures have associated the owl with both good fortune and protection. God knows I’ve had my fair share of luck, both good and hard. When my parents gave me this nickname, did they unwittingly foretell something about my nature?

Decades after they called me “Grandmother Owl,” I became a hospice nurse, clocking into work long after most had turned in for the night, showing up for the “night-owl shift.” I discovered I was well-suited to both the late-night hours and to the otherworldly nature of the job. I was at home with the darkness and the presence of death. Had my early nickname had a hand in molding my character? I found an inborn, unspoken ability to be present with those who were nearing death, poised to fly from this life into the vast, mysterious, and wide-open night of death. When my parents murmured the words “Grandmother Owl” into my tiny-ears, did they know that both my imagination and my instincts would best take flight at night?

As a hospice nurse, I’ve watched, with soft eyes, over many as they made the transit between one world and the next. One of those souls was my late husband, Francis. Franny, for short. I miss him.

When missing him becomes too much, I take walks in the park. On my lucky days, I spot the owl.

The stream water pushes past stones and fallen tree limbs.

The air is sweet with wet soil from this morning’s rain. I imagine the owl’s broad, round wings stretched wide, a soft whoop whoop against the evening air. A cyclist rides by, his tires crunching against the dirt and stones of the path. A young couple, holding hands and wearing T-shirts and jeans, one with a backpack, walks by, recounting the events of the day. The owl holds steady, unmoved by these worldly intrusions.

This messenger from another realm, this emissary between living and dead, this bird for whom I was named as a child, is private, shy. His presence feels like an offering—a message written on the darkening air for me. My loneliness eases, transforms into something I can’t name—perhaps gratitude; perhaps electricity. The woodland creatures, the grasses, the winds, the ancient trees, the young saplings—and of course, the owl, presiding over everything—all of it, every living thing, surrounds me. And one simple word rises up from within my being: “Now.”

Here and now. Right now. Now, here. This evening. This owl. This breath. These feet, on this beaten path. Now. In this city park. On this edge of night.

I visit the park daily, and at different times.

Making my way past the moss-covered roots of pine trees. Clambering down the steep, crooked path.

Always-always-hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

Purple asters bloom.

Chipmunks startle, then scramble beneath fallen leaves, hiding from view. Night, imminent. The temperature takes a sharp dip.

I pull my scarf tight against the evening chill, and stare at the ridges of bark framing the hollow in the tree, willing myself to see clear through the trunk. If I look hard enough, will I see the owl preening and cooing with his mate?

Or resting alone, all by himself?

Owls don’t build their own nests, preferring instead to borrow a cavity from a squirrel or another bird.

I am building a nest in the hollow of my chest, filling it with many owl visits—each pilgrimage to see the owl becomes its own thread, which I then cushion with imaginary twigs, like the ones my little dogs love to bring to me as gifts.

Some evenings, I don’t find the owl. Still, I know he’s there—sleeping perhaps, or maybe dreaming, perhaps waiting for the perfect moment to fly off to other darkened, starry realms, in search of nourishment. But other evenings, like this one, tonight, I manage to come within a few feet of him—close enough to almost touch his fluffy, feathery ears. On nights like these, he darts, silently, back inside to vanish into his shelter, safe from the world.

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