Just as I began to round the jagged corners of the second anniversary of losing James, the owl returns. Three nights ago, I had just shut off the TV downstairs when I immediately sensed something. Trudy perked up as well and we both sat in the silence trying to figure out what had alerted our senses. The owl. The great horned was back. I ran up the stairs as fast as I could, grabbed a blanket off the couch and crept outside onto the deck. Scared that I would frighten him away, I sat down on the deck stairs, as hidden from view as I could be and waited.

For well over an hour, the owl talked to me from no more than fifty yards away. And for well over an hour I spoke with him. I told him about all the ways my heart still breaks and all the ways I am trying to heal it. I told him about the mundane public things like my new principal, Jacob’s move and even my young hen, Molly, laying her new beautiful green and brown speckled egg. And I told him all the things I never tell anyone but him. I may not understand what was being said in those beautifully soft, muted calls of the owl, but my heart went from sobbing to quiet comfort in that time.

I woke up at four the next morning, wide awake for unknown reasons. Unknown until I heard him again. This time he was out front. I ran to the front door and unthinkingly opened it, setting off the alarm, frightening both myself and the owl.

But he was there again the two nights ago. Two in the morning, I awoke again to the sounds of the owl. It’s a sound that is barely audible from my bedroom, but ever since we moved into this house, it’s a sound that always woke me. Trudy and I both lay awake, listening to the great horned, letting him soothe our sorrows. He is there again in the morning when I check on the chickens before leaving for school. I pause in the grey of the early morning hours and listen. I tell him again how much I love him and I reluctantly get in the car and drive to school, wishing I could just stay and sit on the porch and listen.

The owl could not have come at a better time, giving me a small ounce of faith in all the unknows that remain for me. Time has not healed the wounds of grief and loss for me. Despite medication and therapy, his absence is still sharp and the struggle is palpable. I will trade my precious, fleeting hours of sleep; I will trade the warmth of my bed. I will trade hours of the night to hear the owl. I would burn my entire house to the ground if it meant he would stay here with me every night.

But I know he can’t stay. I know he has better places to be, a truth that pains my hearts something fierce but also brings me great comfort. So I will listen now with all my heart. I will soak up the sound. I will savor the soft, gentle words that ring in the still of the dark night that speak to my soul. I will savor even the silence between his calls. He is here with me now. Right here. So I will lie here in the same room two years later, where he drew his last, difficult breath. I will lie here with the window open, knowing, hoping, trying desperately to believe that somewhere his sweet gentle soul lives on. And I will let the calls of the owl soften the jagged edges of my sorrow.