A Book of Miracles

What Is Your Feather?^R9

Monica A. Andermann

I turned off the kitchen faucet and cocked my head toward the sound of the television. The subject of that afternoon's talk show was "What Is Your Feather?" and I could hear the roar of applause and the host's opening monologue from my father's kitchen where I was working. Since my mother's passing earlier that year, I had been coming to this house daily after my shift in the office to cook, clean, and just generally help out my elderly dad and disabled brother, only to repeat the same process in my own home later each evening. To say that I was tired was an understatement. So I decided to leave the kitchen and sit on the edge of the living room coffee table to watch the show, and rest, just for a moment.

The guest, a middle-aged woman whose husband had died after a brief battle with cancer, went on to describe an experience that she had several months after his death. She explained that as she was walking through one of her favorite places, a park where she and her husband had shared daily strolls, she became so consumed with grief that she begged to be shown a sign of her husband's love and an indication that he continued to watch over her. The guest recounted how, as she sat on a park bench with her head in her hands, she began to sob deeply. At that moment a perfect white feather floated down from the heavens and landed softly at her feet. She had received her sign and, amazed at her answered plea, she took the feather home, framed it, and kept it in her living room as a reminder of her husband's love for her.

"Oh, how sappy," I thought. "It was just a simple coincidence. Nothing more."

The guest went on to say that she had written to the talk show host about her husband's illness and decline, her journey with grief, and her amazing feather experience. He and his staff were so moved by her story that shortly thereafter a crew was sent, courtesy of the show, to redecorate her living room around the framed item. A videotape was shown of the beautiful renovations and the audience cheered wildly. Audience members were then asked to share their own "feather experiences" and a parade of stories began. Some participants spoke of poems, special notes, or photos all discovered post-mortem which represented a love passed, each item having its special place in their journey through grief and healing. The host then challenged all viewers to identify their own "feather" during the next commercial break.

Wearily, I rose from the spot where I sat and returned to the kitchen to continue my duties. In a moment of bitter exhaustion, I wondered why no one had yet been sent to my home to simply do a load of laundry or shop for some groceries. As I worked, I continued to consider the talk show host's challenge to define my own "feather."

My feather? I couldn't think of one. After nursing my mother through five years of what doctors called her final stages, I had no feather, just bad memories of late night phone calls followed by rushed visits to the hospital emergency room, endless hours spent waiting in doctors' offices, and incomprehensible medical explanations. And now, with all my added responsibilities to the remaining members of my family, I didn't even have a moment to myself to breathe.

My self-pity continued to grow as I recalled how dedicated my mother and I had been to each other. We truly enjoyed each other's company and had even been on several vacations together, just the two of us. We had been closer, I surmised, than most mothers and daughters I knew. Yet, when the time came for me to move on and live my own life, she had the good grace to let me go. Even after I married, though, we remained a strong part of each other's lives. We spoke on the phone daily and often met for lunch, hunched over our burgers and fries talking girl talk. Through the years, we continued to be each other's source of strength, she helping me to stay focused during a cancer scare in my late twenties and, me, helping her through her many years of illness. In those final years, she would always pat my hand before we would part. "Remember," she'd say, "no regrets when I'm gone. We had a wonderful time together here on earth."

During my drive home that evening I railed against the memories, good and bad. Didn't I, too, deserve a feather? Surely after all my mother and I had been through together, after all I had done for her, I also deserved a message of encouragement and a confirmation of love from beyond. I shook my head and tears spilled down my cheeks.

I arrived home and parked my car as I did each evening. Before exiting, I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath. Then I walked slowly down my front walkway with my head hung low. As I reached the top step I stopped, stunned. There lay one perfect white feather.

(904 words)