The Heron

(Hello Dad)

The first time I saw you as a heron, 
I was running on the Broad Ripple Canal, 
deep in thought and worry.
Running was my therapy, my best way to pray,
Although I didn’t know it then.  
You’d been dead a few years, Dad. 
I missed you achingly and it wasn’t going away. 
You were always my biggest fan, 
there when needed throughout my life. 
Before you died, though,
we were becoming more. 
I was more vulnerable and open,  
and you were like a wise friend, 
asking the questions, 
being less of a directive father. 

And then you were gone. 

A heron was a strange choice. 
Most would have guessed a bear, 
standing tall, occasionally growling loudly, 
arms open wide in the proverbial bear-hug. 
A heron is a skinny bird, quiet, still, 
often balancing on one leg. 
Skinny, quiet and yoga-like were not you, 
and you were still only when napping.  

But I guess a bear in the city 
wasn’t going to work.   

And yet that day I saw the heron, 
I recognized you.  
We were both standing still, 
and you saw me. 
Not the sweaty shorts and t-shirt clad guy
trying to catch his breath. 
But the young father, the oldest sibling, the struggling man
suddenly alone and confused about life. 

You—as the heron—saw me.
And in that moment,
a weight fell away 
and I knew I’d be ok.   

You’ve visited me since that day: 
On a frigid muddy path in North Carolina,
during a sad and lonely time. 
On a boat in Key West,
seeking joy after a painful divorce.   
On our dock at the lake, 
honoring you at Big Ray Fest. 
And many times since in daily life,
when I’ve needed to know
that I am unconditionally loved.

Twenty-one years going, 
I welcome the heron’s visits.
But I wonder “how will you hug me 
when I see you in heaven?”