Fragile Messenger

Send in your questions for this Cardinal to dearmercury@substack.com

They say Cardinals are messengers from Ancestors of blessing, love, transition or impending death. This brings to mind for me Arthur Jafa’s Love is The Message. The Message is Death. Send in your questions for the Cardinal and tune in at the end of the week for answers. cw: injury detail, death.

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It is the anniversary of my friend Nicole’s death. I cannot forget the image of her body burst into pieces across a highway in Thailand where she followed an impulse to cross a road that would not yield to her. I have outlived her some nine years now and find myself working on a project in Philadelphia involving 18th century sails and two women who exist as ancestors also - Ona Judge and Dominque ‘Rem’mie’ Fells.

While walking down the main road in Lansdowne, I catch a shock of red against the asphalt. Snapped leg. Broken wing. An eye wound. The traffic will not stop. I will not see this Frightened Heart crushed beneath a pair of fast-moving tires. I begin to pray. I know the medicine we need is usually growing around us, and this discarded Burger King bag underneath the bush is just what I need. This is what I will use to swaddle its painful frame. Still, the traffic will not stop and I will not see this Sputtering Heart crushed beneath a pair of fast-moving tires. I begin to make my way into the road, my own wingspan announcing the flow of cars must yield to a Higher Power - My Desire for this Cardinal to have a fighting chance.

The discarded bag is soft with grease and I bend low with faith the halves of this sea I have parted will hold their shape. I scoop the Cardinal into my palms.

Miraculously, it works.

Lansdowne is not a place that anticipates the need for birds to be rescued overnight. Or to be treated for pain. Forgive me, Dear One, it is true, my species thinks so little of the emergencies we cause You. A million of (Y)our relatives are killed on the road each day. We are driving You to death.

A friend suggests the wildlife center about 45 minutes away can be of help. They are open tomorrow. The problem is that while I can stop the traffic, I cannot drive myself. Back at the house, I remove a pine needle lodged deep inside the Cardinal’s eye.

We shudder.

Miraculously, Beloved makes it through the night.

A friend sends a text in the morning. They can take me to the wildlife center after I accompany them to a cemetery. Relieved, I take a walk down by the creek before they arrive. There is nothing I can do but be with what is. This will be a simple walking meditation - to feel the earth spread out beneath the weight of my body. Oh. My downcast eyes find a snakeskin shed into the sand opposite a bright copper penny.

At the cemetery, those who were Quakers and Muslims in life are buried in the same soil. Beside all this is a series of compost piles hungry for what has gone uneaten by those at the local HIV/AIDS care facility. My friend cracks open plastic containers to release expired food into what is being cooked in open sun to feed the adjacent garden. It is 90 degrees. And climbing.

I am sitting with Beloved in the shade of a sacred fig tree where trans folk have planted organs they want to return to the earth.

The Cardinal dies.

The funeral is spontaneous. We bury Beloved at the edge of the garden where the sunflowers are growing stronger. Forgive me, Dear One. I could not treat You for pain. Even the shade on earth is far too hot. I am grateful Your suffering is over. Thank You for allowing me to be with You until the edge of Your Life. Love is the Message. The Message is Death. I was raised to believe the arrival of a Cardinal brings the message of love. I was raised to believe the arrival of a Cardinal brings Ancestral Correspondence - that Cardinals can guide or carry the spirit of one who has recently passed into the next realm. This is the work of the Psychopomp. But I’ve put the Psychopomp into the ground. Am I the guide for the Guide crossing over?

My friend and I leave the cemetery and swing on swings in a park in West Philadelphia until the sky opens. We allow ourselves to become soaked with the desire of the sky to meet the earth. As we close the car doors for the drive back to Lansdowne, lightning cracks the dome of the planet to strike the powerline across the street. Deep orange streaks arc into the silver storm. Force divided by acceleration equals mass.

The earth feels the weight of the heavens the whole of the night.

At dawn, the tree outside my window is trembling with song. Dozens of birds have made it through.

We are alive.