There are stretches of life that resemble the Gunbarrel Highway down the San Luis Valley in south-central Colorado…stick straight and you can see for miles. Some stretches offer scenic vistas of families at dinner and in the park. Others are unlit, seemingly endless tunnels with no light at the end. Grief is like driving in the mountains of West Virginia. Some turns are so sharp you meet yourself coming back as my grandma used to say.

I like to stop here at the cemetery some evenings and talk with Mr. Virgo. Whenever I go on a trip with TOW-Wanda, I being him back a rock. I place it around the perimeter of his grave and tell him where I’ve been and what I saw. Tonight I had to tell him I’m going to sell the house and move to Denver to be near the family. I won’t get to visit him as often. I’ll have to bring his rocks in batches. I told him I feel I’m making the right decision but gosh…could he please send me some sort of sign that I’m doing the right thing? Just at that moment, a beautiful mountain bluebird flew up and sat on the post at the head of his grave and started singing to me, cocking its head this way and that, studying me.

I just smiled.

Coincidence? Possibly. But I choose to believe Mr. Virgo hears me and these bluebirds are a sign from him. I see them all the time now whereas before, I was hard pressed to see one occasionally in the yard. I love that.

Thank you, Mr. Virgo…for hanging out with me on a cold, spring evening!