Christmas Day

"Dad," I'd said, the day before, "do you ever see owls?" (We are the bird watchers in the family, by which I mean, we watch for birds.)

"Just once," he said, "that I remember."

Then, yesterday, I took my son to Valley Forge National Park, where my mother is buried beneath the stone that my father and I designed. She is buried in a place that my father visits everyday, in a place that receives the chiming of bells. I went, as I always do, with something to leave behind—this time a miniature instrument, in memory of the carols we had sung, and this red silk amaryllis. I lay the silk into the snow. I heard a call and looked up; an owl was flying overhead.