A Winged Visit

It was the day my wife and I were going to meet, for the first time, the man who held parts of our daughter, who died at 16, inside him: her pancreas and one kidney. As we walked from our front door to the car, a hawk flew toward us and settled in the nearest tree. Maybe 30 feet away? The hawk just sat silently watching. In 15 years in our house, we had never seen a hawk in the yard. We waited, staring, and the hawk stared back. “Hello, Anna,” my wife said. The man is doing very well. — Stephen Burns

Funny, Isn’t It?

Baseball. Ronald Reagan. Brussels sprouts. Old age. Jacques Cousteau. Bundt cake. Alfred Hitchcock. My mother found humor in everything; it was all grist for cartoons. As a young woman, I vowed to see her work published. Years passed. I failed. She died. The internet happened. Covid happened. Define “publish”! A talented artist friend helped me upload 50 years of Mom’s work onto the web. I shared the link with the International Society of Caricature Artists. And 20 years after her death, my mother, Avis Arthur, became the first posthumous member of the ISCA. How funny is that? — Allison Arthur

Not Really a Loss

After another failed round of dating, I lay crumpled on my bed, feeling as crushed as my nearby wad of tissues. I began to catalog my string of recent failures: Ray, who, after disclosing that his ex was an accomplished professional musician, inadvertently threw me into a jealous fit, animating me to play violin again; Avi, whose epicurean tastes alarmed me, yet whose generosity inspired me to consider philanthropic causes; and lastly Jia, whose love of science renewed my own. Turns out that in searching for my better half, I had begun to find pieces of myself. — Vicki Cheng

When His Texts Turned Green

I only knew Rob for one year. He was almost twice my age, but that never bothered me. We bonded through humor and flirty affirmations. He’d always call me “handsome,” often followed by “boy,” “bro” or “friend.” It’s hard to define what we were or weren’t. We met in person just a few times, but texted religiously. I regret not always replying. He liked to give me gifts: books, clothes. I’d send selfies in return. One day the messages stopped. I Googled his name and found an obituary. I wore a shirt he bought me to his celebration of life. — Justin Kaplan

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