The Black Feather
On the same day my father was in a car accident that eventually led to his death, my sister, Tricia, had a grand mal seizure. Family members were in the hospital supporting her when my father was wheeled in on a stretcher. His vital signs were fine. He was talking and joking, coherent enough to tell the nurses that his daughter had just been admitted that morning. Although we were shocked by the turn of events and amazed by the synchronistic line-up, the phone calls and emails spanning the seven-hundred miles between my family in Massachusetts and my home in Virginia were encouraging. We thought my father was being kept overnight for routine observation.
When I called Tricia’s house the day after her seizure, I choked up when I asked her husband how she was. I was stunned when he said, “I’m more concerned about your father.” My eighty-one year old father had a broken vertebrae in his neck. He would have to be put in a brace and would likely be bed-ridden for some time.
The screen door slammed behind me as I headed out to the mailbox. Walking our long gravel driveway with woods on either side, I was absorbed in thinking about my father when I was startled by a SWOOSH, and then the loud flapping of wings. A brazen vulture had swooped down close to my head, and then, as quickly as it had appeared, disappeared into the woods.
I don’t remember what mail came that day, but I was midway in my walk back to the house with a stack of it in my hand when I looked down and noticed a large black feather in my path. A white feather had appeared in a similar manner just after my brother Jim died, four years before. Another white feather turned up a month later, before the death of a second brother. A part of me knew the instant I picked up the black feather that my father’s journey out of this world had begun.
He endured six weeks of hospital interventions and complications before he passed away. It was a heavy loss with layers of grief that took time for me to process. Six months after he died, I wrote a poem after waking up in the morning with a sense that he had kissed me on the cheek. I called the poem “My Father’s Kisses.”
From the creased and fading underlining
of the mind’s lived-out stories
I summon them up
to soothe a new hurt
Although my father was sober in the last two decades of his life (except for an outbreak following the deaths of his sons), he struggled with alcoholism all his adult life. He was nineteen when he joined the army as an artillery soldier in WWII. Combat was almost more than he could bear, but it was witnessing first-hand the inhumanity at Buchenwald Concentration Camp that he always claimed broke him. Later, as a father of nine children, providing for a family of eleven took a further toll.
After the last kiss goodbye I mourned
the part of him that was always absent
compelled to purse his lips for a kiss of death
against the slippery edge of a glass or bottle
My father was a playful, loving man who expressed his affection as easily as he did his anger. I both loved and feared him when I was a child. I struggled writing the poem. It was like a lid on a Pandora’s Box of emotion that needed to be lifted slowly.
If actions speak louder than words
then his kisses should drown out my hurts
the sting of his words harshly spoken
under the influence of post traumatic stress
Stupid little shit
and other figures of speech
that leave indelible marks on young children
Can you make it all better, daddy?
I’m afraid when you yell like that
I don’t normally post long personal poems on the online journal that I keep, but I impulsively posted “My Father’s Kisses” on Father’s Day, the first since my father’s death. The discomfort that followed was unexpected and dramatic. I felt as if I was “in trouble” for sharing such a personal poem. I worried that my words would disturb others and wondered how my family would receive it. As my distress intensified, I couldn’t sort out what was rational or irrational about my fear. I not only thought about deleting the poem, but I worked myself up to the point where I considered not writing on my weblog anymore.
In response to my anxiety, my husband, Joe, suggested we go for a walk. By this time I was aware that the poem had unearthed a dark childhood fear. I knew I had done nothing wrong; but I still felt threatened. Walking on the dirt road paralleling the Blue Ridge Parkway, we were immersed in conversation, reviewing the roots of my feelings, when Joe stopped abruptly in the middle of the road.
“Why are you making us stop?” I demanded. “I need to either keep moving or go curl up in the fetal position somewhere.”
He just stood looking at me until I gave in and let out a big sigh.
“That’s why,” he said.
I took his hand and we began walking again until something in the periphery of my vision caught my attention. It was another black feather, about eighteen inches long. I wanted to believe it meant nothing, but I knew it was mine to pick up.
Turning it over in my hand, I reminded Joe about the first black feather that appeared the day after my father’s car accident. “Did you know he was the only one who knew I put a white feather in Jim’s coffin? He was nearby and saw me do it,” I explained. “He asked like a curious little kid what it was for. I told him – purity, journey, freedom – and he smiled like he was learning something new.”
Joe and I walked in silence after that. With my hands clasped together behind my back, holding the feather in one of them, I shifted into a timeless place. With my head down, I watched my feet move, feeling the reverberating cadence of each step. The dirt road became the sandy shoreline of my childhood home; the dusty gray gravel was beach pebbles. I felt small like a little girl again, and the feather quill I was holding onto was like holding my father’s hand.
With that realization, a feeling of peace floated over me. I knew my father was pleased that my poem told the truth of his story. I felt his presence bearing a message: Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid to use your voice.
Post Notes: You can read “The White Feather” from my book “The Jim and Dan Stories HERE and the poem “My Father’s Kisses” HERE.
June 30th, 2006 9:28 am
Oh Colleen! I couldn’t see the computer screen anymore by the time I got to the end of your blog today! Too many tears! I’m so glad you didn’t lose your voice….it’s a beautiful one!!!!!xoxox
June 30th, 2006 9:32 am
Colleen you are so good. I read your entries and I think I wish I could put things into words like you do. We are going to empty out my mom’s house this weekend. It has sold and we close next Friday. I think I’ll read your book again. Thanks for sharing.
June 30th, 2006 9:38 am
Thank you Tammy and Amy. My siblings were all very supportive that day too. I told some of them what I was going through and when Joe and I came back from our walk there were a couple of wonderful email messages from them that encouraged me further.
This piece is the one I used the other night when I was a guest speaker at the Radford University class that uses my book. I concluded with a reading of it and the whole class (16) got choked up. I bonded with several people there. More on that later…
June 30th, 2006 10:06 am
Colleen, how beautiful. Never allow others to keep you silent because then you loose your voice. You have blessed me this morning. Soon I will show you one reason to get up so early.
June 30th, 2006 2:31 pm
Wonderful essay, Colleen, as usual. Omens are what we make of them, I think. You made it into a good thing.
June 30th, 2006 3:31 pm
Oh Colleen…….how beautiful. It took me awhile to comment. I am just taking it all in.
I think you did have a visit from our Dad, I think we all have had one. I wish I would have one right now……I MISS HIM SO!!!!!!!!!!!!xox
June 30th, 2006 4:16 pm
That Joe sure is a blessing.
It can be scary to put your stories out there. I’m glad to hear you’ve found solidity and peace with what you shared.
June 30th, 2006 5:19 pm
Colleen, that’s a lovely, sad story, and you sure are lucky to have Joe!
June 30th, 2006 6:25 pm
I strongly believe in signs, too. I’m not so arrogant to believe that humans must or can have an explanation for everything. Sometimes, we simply need to be shown the way. Answers will come someday.
June 30th, 2006 6:54 pm
Oh my. I was thinking that if you hadn’t been the type of person who is so keenly aware of all the small details that surround you…you might have missed this whole opportunity to find peace within.
Beautifully written, Colleen. Thank you.
June 30th, 2006 7:09 pm
Colleen you have such a beautiful way of sharing a story. I believe in signs….and I am so glad you stayed true to your voice.
June 30th, 2006 8:07 pm
Colleen your words are truly lovely. Your father must be very proud.
June 30th, 2006 8:37 pm
That was beautiful Colleen. It brought tears and a shake of my head in agreement.
I do think it was a message from dad. The black feather would be exactly how he would do it. If you “got it” that would be fine – if you didn’t that would be fine too. I think you did get the message correctly: “Go for it!”
July 1st, 2006 12:59 am
All I can say is “wow”.
I love you!
July 1st, 2006 7:37 am
My seizure was a huge sign too Coll. One that came from the deepest recesses of the brain to perhaps tell me that life altering events were in the midst. I think signs are so important. I got Dad vibes two days ago at the neurologist office when I saw the Red Sox newspaper page on the wall. This was the same one he use to have hung in the kitchen. I took this as a good sign that this new doctor was going to help me. I think he’ll help Kathy too and I think it’s all being pushed along by some heavenly forces. xo
July 1st, 2006 11:36 am
Beautiful post. Lots of things floated through my mind as I read it…most of all, “to thine own self be true”…and frequently the best way to do that is through our writing and our words.
The feather was very symbolic to me…I’ve had many similar experiences. Which is why the older I get, the more I pay attention and the less I doubt myself.
Really enjoyed this post, Colleen.
July 1st, 2006 1:25 pm
Your post had me crying. I lost my father in 2006 due to illness, and I too believe in signs. My sign was a butterfly…
July 1st, 2006 1:52 pm
Hi from Micheles.
your story is poigent; it has a sadness and beauty that I think anyone who has lost a fmily member can relate to. Thank you.
July 1st, 2006 3:24 pm
Excellent, Colleen. I know exactly where you’re coming from, because I have received similar omens. People who don’t have the “gift” don’t understand their significance.
July 1st, 2006 4:48 pm
I believe God gives us signs to lead us along the right path and for comfort. You are blessed to be able to see those and use them.
July 5th, 2006 3:45 pm
thank you for these gorgeous words. i needed to read them today.
May 31st, 2007 10:07 am
The tears flowed freely this morning, as I too am fatherless. My father passed away on October 28, 2000 – 3 days after my 33 birthday. I am so happy that we met through the randomness of Thursday Thirteen. This is a very beautiful post – moving on so many levels. Ok – back to your Blue Moon post.
February 10th, 2008 11:04 pm
I found a large black feather from a bush turkey in the car shed just before I knew that my grandson-to-be had died in the womb at 7and a half months.
I was looking to see if there was any significance – an omen – concerning black feathers.
August 19th, 2008 11:35 pm
My mother died recently after a very brief illness at age 88. A normally healthy woman who didn’t look her age at all (hardly a gray hair in her dark brunette hair), was suddenly ill with abdominal pain after a morning of shopping and lunch with friends. She was given morphine which helped relieve the pain some, but her blood pressure dropped dangerously low. The next morning the doctor removed all pain medication, had more tests run and determined her gall bladder was diseased and she had pancreatitis. The surgeon was called and she was moved to ICU where she finally received the first pain meds of the day. The surgeon was not optimistic and told me so as they took her away. She coded twice on the operating table before they could begin and the surgeon came out to tell me that it was hopeless. We brought her back to her room in ICU and made her as comfortable as we could and waited with her. After several hours my brother and sister left the room to try to sleep a bit (it was 3:00 a.m.). I stayed with Mom and held her hand as I tried to sleep there close to her. At 4:00 a.m. I dozed and woke suddenly at 4:10 when I had a dream or a vision of bright, glistening lights. I immediately thought it was mom and checked her, but she seemed the same. Within minutes, however, the rhythm of the monitors began to change and some sort of sound was missing. The ventilator was still working, yet something was different. I watched and talked to her, telling her it was okay for her to go, I loved her, etc. At 4:30 the red lights came on and a buzzer sounded. The nurse came in a few secconds later and said, “She’s flatlined!” Then I knew what those lights meant.
A few days later I was visiting the funeral home and went out to my father’s, son’s, and mother-in-law’s graves which are very close to each other. My dad died in 2000 and my mother’s final resting place was there beside him. I noticed a black feather at the headstone, but ignored it at first. I walked to the other graves, cleaned the stones and walked back to Dad’s grave, this time picking up the feather and realizing it’s significance. I didn’t know anything about the feathers mentioned in all of the stories above, just that my mother loved birds and of course she would speak to me with a feather.
I kept the feather in my car and mentioned it to my daughter. The day of the funeral we found another black feather by my son’s grave.
Within five days my last child, my daughter, left for college, driving several thousand miles with a girlfriend. Along the way, she came upon another black feather and took a photo of it. When I saw the photo, I realized it was just like the feathers I’d found in the cemetery. Exactly.
I showed the photo to my sister, but she didn’t really understand the significance. A few days later she wrote me asking about the feather. She said she had found a black feather in her garden while watering and felt it, too, came from Mom.
Searching then, the Internet for anything that would help me tie these feathers to my mother, I came first upon a website about a book, “The Feather of Death” about mothers and daughters and the death of one. Then I came across this site with the stories of the white and black feathers. How comfoting it is to find this answer!
And one other way I know my mother is reaching out to me – the day of her funeral I was watching my watch very carefully as the minister was late and we were preparing to have to do the service without him. He arrived at 2:55, just 5 minutes before the service was to begin. We took our seats and he began the service. A little bit into the service, I glanced at my watch, hoping things weren’t too late as my slide show was about 25 minutes long. My watch had stopped at 2:55 p.m., just when we sat down in the chapel. I knew Mom was with me – that would be just like her to stop my watch!
Over the next week I noticed that my watch had advanced about 15 minutes and stopped. It’s been that way for about a week and today I glanced at it (I still haven’t had time to get a new battery) and it was back at the 2:55 time! It doesn’t make sense that it would either go backward nor does it make sense that it would advance 12 or so hours and stop at that exact time. My mother, again, letting me know she’s close and probably having fun with this.
I don’t know why some people receive white feathers and others black, but it doesn’t matter to me. I know she is alright and it is so comforting.
Thanks for your stories – they have helped me a lot.
August 20th, 2008 7:57 am
Thank you for telling your, Julie. I was very moved by it.
July 17th, 2009 6:18 pm
i was gettin ready for my sisters funeral last friday. I made the bed and it was clear. Went to bathroom and when i returned there was a black feather on the bed and immediately i thought of my sister. Never heard of this before. Too many feathers not to be a message to those left behind.
July 17th, 2009 6:26 pm
Wow. So sorry about your sister. You can read about the white feathers here http://looseleafnotes.com/notes/2005/07/the_white_feather.html