ESSAYS
The Shadow That Walks Beside Me
By Brigid O’Kane
While sitting on the dock, I wondered when I would remember my last visit to this place. What will I not remember? Will I forget the turtles sticking their heads out of the water and bobbing in the soft waves? How could I ever part with the quiet rhythmic motion of trees reflecting in the water’s soft waves? How do I remember the birds?
The tops of the trees were aglow with the first rays of the morning sun that brought light to the shadowy echoes in the lake. Heaven on Earth reveals itself as the reflection of the blue sky begins to glow, and clouds shimmer. There is an orchestra of birds singing all around me, woodpeckers drumming in the distance, and the soft flutter of winged beings flying by me. How do I remember the birds?
How can I sustain the vision of geese floating across the water’s surface, making a quiet wake of glistening gemstones? These sparkling waters around the geese are like an aura, illuminating them, making them angelic and luminescent. There erupts the loud honking of geese calling each other, which echoes off the trees. The geese are pairing. Today is the day to remember the birds.
It is 8:15 AM, March 22, 2026. There is more sunlight on the bare trees and pines now, and the colors are changing fast as I sit still. The hazy grey trees at the farthest edge of the lake are lit at the top as the sun slowly rises behind me. The reflections of the trees in front of me are clearer as the light gradually reveals every branch and twig.
Birds gracefully glide overhead as wavy, erratic reflections follow them. A pair of geese bathe on ‘turtle log,’ which received its official name because turtles are continuously sunbathing there, 20 or 30 turtles at a time. If you come close to this log while they are soaking in the sunlight, they will plunge into the water and disappear.
I decide it’s time to visit Icarus. Ick was a light-hearted African Grey Timneh who was our little buddy for 26 years. He had a powdery white mask surrounding his eyes, with two dark nostrils resting on either side of his hooked beak. Dark, warm grey covering his neck, shoulders, and wings. Ick’s tummy shifted to white feathers dappled with specks of a soft light grey, and his dark, shadowy tail was accented with beautiful, deep maroon feathers.
When he passed on February 7, 2016, we buried him in these woods. I feel the urge to visit him, so I make my way off the dock and across the hill. Deer are stirred by my presence; they lift their tails, revealing their white fur. Then, they snort and dash away as the rustling sound of their hooves stomping through dried leaves slowly fades into the distance.
Bird songs are everywhere. I pass by the downhill side of the spur, and the mound of Earth Dad put there years ago. I observe the erratic, yet artistic, patterns in the trees that were carved by beavers’ teeth. Many of the trees have a blanket of rich green moss at their bases. Looking up the hill, I see the large white dead cedar that is near Ick’s grave. I begin climbing the hill toward him. Again, there are more deer, and they quickly leave me. I angle my path up the hillside so the sun on the horizon is above his grave. It rises as I come closer to him.
Icarus’s grave is covered with large flat Kentucky rocks that have been thoughtfully arranged in a circle. Intentionally placed in the center is what we call a ‘dragon head,’ which is something often found in these woods. It is a part of a dead cedar tree that has been cut at the base, with some of the remaining roots attached. They are lovely sculptures. Layers of dried leaves and twigs mingle with the rocks, stretching far beyond the boundaries that mark this burial place.
I sit on the moss-covered bench that has a lovely view from atop the hill, and I can see the distant lake through the columns of trees. The property is for sale, and we need to let it go. We are at the point where our personal belongings need to be removed from the main house, including Joshua’s remains. Josh was also my buddy, an orange tabby cat that lived with me in Michigan, California, and Ohio. Josh and Ick were an unlikely pair, but they got along well. They looked after each other. It doesn’t feel right to bring Josh back to our Cincinnati home. His place is here; he died here. After a few words with Ick, I follow the deer path back to the main house to get Joshua.
Icarus’s grave changes with the seasons. In winter, on cloudy days, the snow tends to reflect the sky’s soft, muted, cool grey tones. Snow clings to the tops of the rocks and falls between them, creating dark outlines that reveal the nuanced shapes of each stone. In bright sunlight, the snow is a crisp white with dazzling sparkles so enchanting that you are convinced there is magic in the woods. Autumn leaves blanket his grave in an array of vivid and fading colors, evidence of what remains of the season’s dramatic transition. These leaves fade to shades and tints of brown, lingering into spring, when small native flowers dapple the hillside around his sacred ground.
Throughout the years, Ick’s grave has received other offerings. Dried and dead flowers from Mother’s Day, Valentine's Day, and other festive occasions. I save these dead flowers in paper bags and bring them south when I visit. I carry them through the wood to his resting place. I remove the petals and sprinkle them over the stones. Stems are broken and carefully placed, and leaves are evenly distributed. The rearrangement of Christmas flowers in a circle, atop bumpy snow, is truly a sight to behold. These gifts are received in love and given back in love. Other presents, such as seed pods, seashells, feathers, turtle shells, snake skins, bones, sand dollars, chunks of bark, branches, sticks, grasses, walnuts, and the like, are all appropriate offerings for this beloved bird.
As I make my way back to the main house, I observe the yellow daffodils glowing in the morning sun and the redbud trees covered with ripe pink buds. I see the lush emerald leaves of the surprise lilies that are twelve inches tall, knowing they are preparing for their August bloom. Streaks of sunlight stretch across fallen leaves on the hill as my shadow walks beside me.
As I open the door to enter the main house, the coffee maker sounds an alarm. It is time. I refill my coffee and fetch Josh. His remains are resting in a wooden box on the shelf, next to books titled Eastern Birds, Bluebirds, Book of North American Birds, Seeing the Light, and Kinship With All Life. His container is square in proportion from the top with a circle carved in the middle, surrounded by swirling flowers. I flip the lock, lift the lid, and open the box.
When was the last time I opened this wooden box? I felt a thread tugging at my heart as I gazed at the small plastic bag filled with his ashes. He died on Christmas Eve 2004. I was eight months pregnant. The memories of his loss that evening mingle with the memories of his unwavering loyalty and guardian-like behaviors for Icarus. The plastic bag marked with a black Sharpie read ‘Joshua, #1673.’ I took the little bag out and held him. Standing in front of the picture window, I witnessed a pair of geese take flight from the lake, rise into the sky, and fly over the house like jets in a flyby salute.
It is a familiar walk back to Ick. Follow the deer path. As I walked, I noticed that the sun was warmer. I passed the topside of the spur. Looping back this way, I sensed that I was coming full circle. I heard, for the first time that morning, the wind whispering through the leafless trees. The woods were waking up. The sound of my boots stepping on leaves was loud in the quiet open air.
I cradled Josh in my hand, carrying the scissors in the other. When I reached Icks’ grave, the first light of the morning was radiating off the dragonhead, casting unusual shadows on the dried and weathered wood. A watchful turkey vulture circled overhead. Opening the box, I felt a tender breeze pass over my body. I took Joshua’s remains out of the box, and we sat on the bench together for a while.
Then, we walked toward the circle of rocks. I knelt, touching the stones, searching for the right gap to the Earth. When my hand sank through the leaves, I began to move them aside. I curiously inspected each object I found, as if they were old friends. I unearthed two seashells, a rotten walnut, the stem from a gourd, a broken section of a sand dollar, a chunk of moss-covered wood, and other twigs and branches. Slowly, I exposed a small circle of damp soil protected by the surrounding leaves. It was reminiscent of a bird’s nest.
Then, carefully, with the scissors, I opened the bag and gently poured Joshua’s remains onto the hallowed ground. His light grey dried ashes contrasted with the dark, moist Earth. Respectfully, slowly, I covered him with leaves and the other offerings. With my hand, I touched the ground.
Then, intuitively, I started searching for a stone. I needed to cover him, shield him, keep him safe. I walked around the circle of rocks until I found one that appeared to be close to the right size. When I placed the rock over him, I was astonished to discover that it perfectly mirrored the irregular shapes of the surrounding stones. How could this be? I listened, but there was no answer. Just joyful laughter from the birds.
After placing a pinecone atop the stone, I sat on the bench for two, with the empty box close to me. Multiple buzzards circle above. They flew so low I could hear the movement of their wings. Always bird sounds, all around me.
The sun cast light and shadow that danced across the stillness of the white oaks in front of me. I was mesmerized by their organic union. Hard to describe the hollowed feeling inside as I thanked Josh for being my buddy, and Icarus for receiving him.
After some time, I noticed that the sun was higher in the sky. The turkey vultures had abandoned me. When I looked at the dragonhead, I was confused. There was no light on the grave. This puzzled me because there were no leaves on the trees. There was no shadow over that patch of Earth, just no light. Perplexed, I stopped trying to figure it out and started back to the main house.
As I walked away, I sensed a calmness inside me being ripped from me by something from behind. It was being removed from my body, like a backwards magnetic pull or gravitational force that physically sifted the sense of peace out of my being. This serenity was staying there, in that place. I could not take it with me.
I stepped outside the threshold of this tranquil sphere that encircled the grave, content with knowing they were quiet and at rest. I continued to follow the deer path. Then, I was startled by a screaming red-tailed hawk that flew right above my head. I stopped in my tracks to watch it swoop and yell, as if it were trying to tell me something. Then it flew away and disappeared into the woods.
How do I remember the birds? Hawks are significant messengers. Turkey vultures are gentle, known in ancient Egypt for their exceptional mothering abilities as they care for their young. It’s hard to remember geese as angelic when you hear their disruptive honks, but they easily hold both qualities gracefully. Songbirds have musical gifts. On and on goes the list of birds that evoke memories. Then, there’s Icarus.
I cannot explain the subtle magic that linkers in the woods where birds reside, where Ick remains. One must be completely present to see it. This presence is potent, especially when carrying forward those afterlife deeds with reverence; it temporarily thins the veil, revealing the charms in wood, feather, earth, ash, and stone. It is a mysterious and humble way to remember the bird.