Proof of Life: When Comedy Comes to Town

The crunching gravel beneath my sneakers halts. I’ve caused quite a shock: she’s frozen, every hair on her body stands erect. Eyes locked in a bind with mine. The A/C unit is a perfect cubby hole no more. I blink, she darts. Frantic now, she zigzags to the edge. I shift slightly: U T T E R P A N I C. Left, right, no.wait. stop.go.stop. Which way is up or out and now circles and I can’t bear to move any longer because she just can’t stop and I feel sorry for the little…

THUNK.

She faceplants. Right into the sliding glass door. But she shakes it off, whizzes past me in a gray streak and scurries up the nearest trunk to an island of safety.

I cannot help but throw my head back in a howl.

This is my overactive brain some days on planet earth. Also the squirrel in my backyard today.

Ferg has a way of ensuring I am interrupted by a comedy show every time I convince myself I’m spiraling towards doomsday. This week, no exception.

One moment I’m in a serious moment of contemplative overanalysis between my sofa cushions and the other, a squirrel taps the mic, this thing on? I glance up from my morning journal session to see him dig like he’s been struck with a live wire, his bushy tush teetering into his hole.

He pops up – GOT MY NUT. The stretch of nose to eyeballs is smeared in dirt but he scampers off in pride. My mouth curls up.

Ferg has diligently sent me signs that he’s near since the week he crossed over to the other side – six months ago this week. Some are full-blown showstoppers, others tiny magical sparks. It’s a massive source of comfort and camaraderie that stitches us together despite often feeling apart. There are lots of turtles, cardinals, book titles, billboards and so much more I have to share.

But it’s been more than a week since I’ve seen a sign from Ferg, I realize last week. Probably something to do with my head buried too deep in work to be open to even seeing them. Is he upset with me? How many have I missed? Guilt thickens, followed by the overwhelming urge to hold him to my chest once more which, I have learned from Brené Brown, is called longing.

The more I think about it, the more I ache all over. Or has he just… oh please no… stopped?

Just when I think I can’t sink further down this dark hole is when relief usually arrives.

Of course, every time I am in this place, I think, yeah right. Not gonna happen this time.

The next day, I go on a walk at lunchtime and snooze my notifications. I am on the same ruby colored brick sidewalk I was 22 weeks ago when I noticed: something is off with Ferg. Why does he keep leaning to the left? Clouds start to cover me again.

I think: Hey bud, sure would be nice to have a sign from you soon.

And right then – that exact moment and not a second later – Bam.

I see it.

A little plastic skeleton turtle peeking out from beneath the bushes to my right. I stop. Stare. Oh, YOU ARE GOOD, my little love! And then, I thank him.

In that moment of taking a break to serve myself, I served us both.

I’ve read –and can now confirm–that one of the most miraculous things about these signs from our beloveds is the incredibly precise timing of when they arrive. It’s when we often need them most. This was my own token I could slide into my pocket of proof. But he didn’t stop there.

Oh hey mom, that nature hike you’re going on tomorrow? Check out that dark stripey thing bobbing in the water. It's from me. He’s a tiny turtle guy, neck outstretched long to breathe above the river’s surface. Hi, my baby. Inside his gentle heart, Ferg had a hungry sense of humor and clearly still does. I’m gonna send you a fake turtle to see if you’re listening before you get to the real one, Mama! A silly thing to do in this neighborhood teaming with life.

Between the dance of the turtles, I’m learning he sends a comedy show through any being that’s nearest when I’m by myself at home. The blue jays and robins and fireflies and chipmunks and squirrels are a far cry from that Chicago highrise view. But here in green D.C., they know how to reach me for a laugh at intermission.

I have kept an autumn tradition of buying pumpkins for both of us, a big and a little. The other day, I notice yet another wee pumpkin missing from my window sill. I scavenge and discover the secrets of this porch pirate. Not enough to crunch ‘n munch right there, oh no. It must be punted to the ground and rolled around and gnawed on as a multi course fall feast. That’s Ferg – never not hungry all the way up to his last meal (filled with almost all orange foods).

Don’t worry, Mama. Plenty of bounty to go around if you let me help lighten the load.

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