Moonlit Night

Grief is painful; it's the most painful thing ever to experience. There isn't a timeline for processing the loss of someone you love; sometimes, the scars become rough scabs that cause discomfort, and others, they are wounds that fester endlessly. My grief is slow and torturous, taunting me as I lie in bed at night. The relentless images attacked my psyche, pounding the loss into me over and over. It was a constant reminder that she was gone forever. When things are too heavy, I turn my attention to the majestic tapestry of the night sky decorated with stars and the moon.

The air flowing through my bedroom window was fresh and cold after an extended rainfall, nature's time for cleansing and renewal. I eagerly inhaled the crisp, moist essence praying it would cleanse me too. Maybe, even if for one night, the nightmares would disappear. If only erasing the memories were so simple.

The slideshow of her final days playing in slow motion; the sterile hospital room, the hurried, stressed medical staff, my Aunt Mae hooked up to a ventilator. A skeletal frame with ashen skin, sunken eyes, and a fixed gaze swallowed up by the gown, tubing, and blankets. The unavoidable reality from years of cancer is taking its toll. Treatments and therapies only contribute so much to a late-stage diagnosis. It was haunting and disturbing to see my pillar of strength, kindness and grace withering away. She was a confidant, fashion coach, makeup artist, and best friend. A hoarse rattling came from her dry, stiff lips that signaled the end, the crushing realization that she was gone forever.

Her humble two stories, three bedrooms, and one bathroom revealed her true nature: artistic, creative, and spiritually connected to various religions. On the other hand, it also uncovered something odd. Aunt Mae was obsessed with Barn owls. They were everywhere! Elaborate designs on curtains, rugs, wallpapers, and furniture in the living room. A rustic kitchen littered with ceramic shakers, dishware, and candles. She carefully decorated the master bedroom with perfume bottles, plush bedding, and cushions. She had dutifully tended a garden in the backyard, also full of barn owls in one form or another. During my family's inspection of the home, I found a leather-bound journal that belonged to Mae. Within its pages were stories and poetry written about beautiful, mystical owls and their hidden secrets. Something I hold close to this day.

On nights like this, where the memories disturb my rest, I turn to the journal on my bedside table. I perched myself on the windowsill with the old book and opened it. Worn, crinkled pages of carefully crafted works of art, each more expressive than the previous. Her handwriting was a delicate cursive script that danced across the faded paper in an elegant waltz. I breathed in the unique fragrance of the ink, hoping to catch a hint of Mae's perfume to comfort my aching heart. She used to mix aromatherapy mist into her inkwell to give her written word a sweet scent. Unfortunately, the smell has long since faded. Sighing heavily, I continue searching for something to read, a distraction for my tired mind. Finally, as is an answer to my prayers, it appeared:

Moonlit Visitor

An envoy of the night, once in human form

Rare, mysterious, and wise.

Now a wanderer in search of an audience.

A harbinger of death, but also the giver of knowledge.

It's eyes fortell of better days; of brighter skies.

Feathers that carry a heavy burden, begging to transform.

Shrill voice that echoes in the silence.

My wish, my prayer to it.

Please grace my home with your essence.

With my heart open, for all to see,

Take flight and visit me.

I closed my eyes and let my imagination run free. Within my mind, the images are vivid and clear. Pure white feathers with brown flecks sparkling in the moonlight; onyx eyes that peer into your soul, long, sharp talons ready for hunting. My thoughts are interrupted by a dull, shrill noise. Startled, I look around for the source. There's a light scraping on the windowsill next to my thighs with a fuzzy sensation that follows; this got my attention. It's a living, breathing barn owl huddled next to me for warmth. Cautiously, I stroked its head. Instead of cowering in fear, it gently nuzzled my hand.

“Don't be afraid,” I whispered. “I won't hurt you.”

It stares up at me and chirps softly in response.

I chuckled. “It's okay; I'm lonely too.”