Finding Cardinals

   There are often cardinals in the neighborhood, singing from the tops of trees, just where my father said they often would be.  It was the kind of thing he would notice.  And now I tell my daughters.

   Once, when they were very young, and I was home alone, a cardinal crashed into the big window of our family room.  I went out the sliding door to the backyard and looked at the beautiful, small, red bird lying in the green grass.  Dead, or merely stunned?  I hesitate.  Wanting to touch it.  Afraid to touch it.  
   I wait long enough to think the cardinal is really dead, and slowly, slowly, bend down and reach out my hand.  I move it ever so gently to just barely nudge the wing and BAM!  The cardinal explodes into flight and is gone. 

   A couple of years later, another cardinal crashes into the window.  This time Rachel is home.  We go out together into the back yard to look at the beautiful red bird, lying in the grass.  There is something about the way this one is lying there:  this one is really dead.  I pick it up.  We each stroke it gently with the tips of our fingers.

   Having a small child with me, it is required that I go to the garage and get a shovel to dig a small grave by the back fence.  We bury the cardinal and observe a moment of silence.

   The truth is, I would have buried it even if I was alone.