I’d been settled in my forest camp for nearly two years—a small hut, large garden, storage shed, and well-established daily routines–when the cardinal first appeared. It was impossible to miss his flitting from a nearby branch to the ground amongst my rows of corn—that most welcome flash of red against the monotonous green and brown of the forest and my struggling crops. It was also impossible to miss the involuntary grin that had taken over my face.

That first morning, he picked at the few stray, dry kernels I’d not collected amongst the cornhusk mulch. His foray was brief, and he made not a sound before flying to the top of a waist-high cornstalk and then off into the surrounding woods. I stood and stared into that stand of palmettos and oaks for some time—trying in vain to catch another glimpse of that little red flash, trying to keep my smile from waning.

***

My morning weeding of the garden was nearly complete when the cardinal made his return the next day. Again, he flitted to the ground to pick at stray seeds. Again, I grinned at the sight. He lingered a bit longer this time, and I quietly sat on a nearby stump to watch him work—delaying my daily trip to the spring to refill water jugs.

For the first few months after his initial appearance, the garden was the only place he visited—and the only place I would pause my routine to observe his foraging. Honestly, watching him feed became part of my revised daily schedule—until one day my little friend returned later in the day—perching on the clothesline just at the edge of the glow cast by my evening cooking fire.

My little friend.

It’s how I always thought of him from that moment on. Subconsciously, I know I avoided giving him a proper name—proper names being associated with a certain level of intimacy and a certain level of intimacy being associated with the overwhelmingly immense pain of loss in recent years.

My little friend.

Later that evening, as I ate, he sang for me for the first time. A deliberate and slow wheet, wheet, followed by a quick whoit, whoit, whoit that he repeated for nearly an hour.

My little friend.

When he stopped singing, I turned towards the clothesline and calmly said, “I will never harm you, my friend. I will never harm you.”

His head tilted slightly to the right before he flew off—beyond the glow of the firelight.

***

We grew close over the ensuing years. Perhaps as close as a man and a cardinal could get. Though he never showed interest in perching on my arm or shoulder, and I could never quite coax him to eat seeds from my hand, he made more and more regular appearances and spent more time within the boundaries of my camp.

My little friend’s songs also became increasingly elaborate over time—his standard wheet, wheet, whoit, whoit, whoit, was often followed with cheeeer-a-dote, cheeer-a-dote-dote-dote, or purdy, purdy, purdy.   

For me, this embellishment and the length of the songs was a sign of his increased comfort in my presence—his trust. Still, nearly every day, I repeated my promise at least once.

“I will never harm you.”

By sprinkling a few smaller seeds on the ground—gradually closer and closer—I was finally able to coax him next to my seat. Eventually, he allowed me to gently stroke his soft, red feathers.

***

[Stay tuned for the next installment of “Cardinal Sin”]