Home is Where Your Owl is
I’ve never been fatalistic. Well, an OCD adherence to Catholic damnation and gloom sermons had me praying for hours some nights as a kid so my family wouldn’t go to hell (same prayers, same order, same pleas and promises in the same order or I’d have to start over, or we’d all burn), but I digress. Never believed in signs or any meaning in the chaos other than coincidence and irony.
But for some reason I’m finding comfort in objects. My Older daughter is too. She brought Baby Owl from Texas. When it took months to get in school and she was reacting emotionally to the isolation, she had Baby Owl. 🦉 was home and love and safety and consistency. Even when she went to school and made friends and levelled off emotionally, she had 🦉 . She had taken 🦉 to sleep overs.
Today on our daily walk, we lost baby owl. She fell out of her spot on the stroller. The second we realised, I got my little strapped back in the stroller and we doubled back. Nearly a kilometre and a half back up the trail we’d walked, I saw a lady pick 🦉 up.
My girl got her and held her, and the lady saw how emotional she was, and looked to me and said, “oh, the 🦉 must mean a lot.” I couldn’t help it. I was doing the hyperventilate, try not to cry thing. “Oh my, you look about to cry,” she said.
I held up a sign of thanks and walked off bawling.
I love how my girl plays. She has conversations and adventures and conflicts and parties with her toys. It’s the same imagination training ground where I started telling stories and making characters and thinking of stakes and resolution. I must have seemed odd when I played with my GI Joes, but I was happy. Like Baby Owl makes my daughter. I’m glad we found her. I’m not ready to let go.
If you found an 🦉 on the nature trail in #muswellhill
and a big American in a ball hat cried at you, thanks.
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