Deer have taken over my neighborhood. They loiter at the mailboxes, eat our flowers, and generally parade around with a bold confidence I find presumptuous. Recently I looked through my den window to see a buck maybe six inches on the other side of the glass, chomping away at my shrubs. He glanced up and his big brown eyes locked with mine. I rapped on the windowpane and let loose a few choice words. My two cats bolted from the sofa, and the deer skittered away.

Years ago, I would have had a different reaction to these interlopers. That was back when I’d lived in that altered state of grief. The season was one of solitary sorrow as I mourned for a life unlived, a peculiar grief empty of memories. During each of the nine months I was pregnant, I’d imagined a future relationship with a small new being, but I was left lamenting a future that hadn’t come. So what does a mother do after her baby dies?

Here’s what I did. I continued to play nice with the world. I went to work, emptied the trash, and paid the bills. I coped. But my thinking was loosely anchored. The lines blurred between the physical world I dwelt in and the spiritual world I tuned into. In the absence of a flesh and bones relationship with my child, I sought a substitute.  

I decided that my child’s spirit was nearby, and I just needed to stay alert to find her. For a while, I thought she was among the birds. They’d sing in the mornings outside my open window in a way I hadn’t noticed before. Hadn’t I read about the connection between birds and the spirit world? Was their singing a sign? I’d sit outside in those early mornings and listen intently, hoping I might sense my daughter’s presence with certainty. We might somehow be together if I’d remain vigilant. 

Once while reading on my deck, I noticed a hawk facing me on a tree branch about thirty feet away. Was she staring at me? I matched her statuesque stance and kept still. Occasionally she’d turn her head to the side, or adjust her copper-colored wing, but she did little else for what seemed forever. “If it’s you,” I whispered, “Here I am.” I waited for a sign. I always looked for signs back then. Eventually the hawk pumped her wings and soared off through the trees. A Google search informed me that Shamans believe hawks not only remember past lives but also carry messages from spirits.  

That was a good day for me. 

My focus extended to other animals besides birds, like the baby squirrel that dropped from a tree on an evening walk. The poor thing must have lost her balance on an overhead limb and fell, landing inches from my feet. She righted herself and fled through the bushes, but I was left concerned. Was she trying to say hello? Should I follow her? There was also that family of deer I ran into on another dusky stroll. We simultaneously spotted each other, stopped in our respective tracks and stared. Their eyes seemed to radiate warmth, and I searched and pined for that one pair I hoped was hers. I imagined we would recognize each other, and if I kept relaxed, she would draw near enough so that I could see her delicate lashes and count the ivory spots on her back. We would breathe in the night air together as the moon shone down on us from above. 

Months went by like this, my sensitivity and imagination amplified. I mostly slept-walked through the monotonous tasks of living and only peripherally sensed the world spinning on in spite of me. I barely noticed that a presidential election came and went and that a war in Iraq grew. How could I with so many birds to watch?

This period didn’t last forever, nor could it. The world wanted me back, and eventually, I wanted to return. I’d turn on the TV and actually pay attention. I’d shop for new clothes as my body shrunk. I’d answer email. These seemingly small feats reconnected me to the land of the living. I didn’t stop thinking about my daughter or her spirit – wherever and whatever it was – but I stopped searching for her. I grew to trust that our connection would evolve and reveal itself to me in new ways over time. 

What remains from those months of straddling two worlds so long ago? I’m still tuned into birds, not necessarily because I think my daughter is one of them, but because they’re remarkable creatures. When I discover an errant insect has clearly taken a wrong turn and has ended up in my kitchen, I’ll escort it back outside. Where it belongs. Fawns frolic through the small field beside my townhouse, and their carefree spirits captivate me. But does their mother really have to chew her way through my azaleas?