Our resident pair of great horned owls were perched nearby, one likely on a pine limb in the forest surrounding our neighborhood, while the other sits atop a roof ridge a few doors down. Their conversation is a soft and soothing hoo-h'HOO-hoo-hoo back and forth, which would normally lull me back to sleep. Instead, wide awake and restless at 4:10 a.m., I crawl out of bed with intentions to hopefully indulge in a nap later.
I told Leo before falling asleep the night before that I was finally ready to write and share on the magic of his falcons in the morning, and would love his help in doing so. Being just days before his first death anniversary (on 1/14), I felt it would bring lightheartedness to an otherwise assumed gloomy and heart wrenching affair.
When writing Leo-specific stories, I’ve gotten accustomed to asking for his help. Deep reflection in a way of not simply remembering, but transporting myself back to hone in on the little details is often still searing and painful. The only thing worse would be letting those memories fade before getting them on paper. Teamwork makes the dream work, as they—and we—used to say.
Using the backlight on my phone to somewhat illuminate the precarious pile of folded clothes I’ve been allowing to accumulate on my dresser, I gently grab a pair of navy sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt, in my best effort to not wake Ryan or knock the precarious tower of athleisure wear to the floor. The sweatshirt happens to be the one I was wearing the day I was holding Leo—just before he passed away in Ryan’s arms.
It’s oversized, soft, and high quality, with the inside feeling more densely-woven than fleece-like. Across the front, there is a Green Bay Packers’ logo, printed in a faded style to make it appear vintage. It’s not—I got it for a steal from the men’s section at Nordstrom Rack 5 or 6 years ago. The longer sleeves and much cozier-than-flattering fit brings a blanket-like comfort. As does knowing that it was the last thing I held my son in, before the funeral home director drove his van away with him inside.
Leo was dressed in his bright red Cat and Jack’s sweatpants, mis-matched black and gold wool socks and a royal blue long-sleeved t-shirt. Cute, cozy, and quality was his general style; especially considering his body plateaued at the 6-12 month sizing of clothing three years before. While he was far from a baby in age, his baby-sized clothes were purchased with thoughtful intention of longevity, comfort and style.
Dressing a tiny little boy in baby-sized clothing was a challenge I didn’t take lightly. Unlike most little boys, his clothes would fit him for years. And unlike most children that weighed 14-17 pounds, he was not a baby. He was a tiny little boy, not fit to wear baby clothes.
There was little to no thought considered when grabbing Leo’s outfit from the heaping basket of clean laundry in his bedroom, as Ryan drew him a bath the day before. I quickly scanned for a pair of his favorite comfy sweatpants, digging the bright red ones out before the maroon or navy. I searched for two tiny socks, without caring if they matched. Then, from the half-dumped-over basket, I tugged the cuff of the first long-sleeved t-shirt I could find, freeing it from the pile. His cozy-yet-haphazard red, blue, black and yellow ensemble was created.
The royal blue long sleeve shirt was recently delivered in my habitual semi-annual purchase from Tea Collection. Who, according to their website, “travel the world to bring you globally inspired, well-made kids clothes for all of life's adventures.” In addition to feeling good purchasing from a smaller company with impressive philanthropic efforts and ethical sourcing, their adorable nature-themed shirts became our favorite for Leo and his adventurous, outdoorsy little boy lifestyle. And, most importantly, the designs offered in sizes 3-6 months to 4T kept him looking like the little boy he truly was, despite his tiny frame.
The peregrine falcon printed on the front of Leo’s shirt exuded a regal strength in posture with a fierceness in its eyes. Ryan and I hoped it was a sign, hinting that Leo’s failing body would bounce back with a fierce strength. In the end; however, the falcon symbolism provided a different, much more powerful meaning. A meaning we would learn later, amidst the misfortune of his untimely passing.
Opening the door from our garage—making our way inside from the alleyway, where we had just been on our knees in agonizing witness to the funeral director’s van pulling away with Leo’s tiny, lifeless body inside—felt as though we were walking through the doorway into a new life. A life we didn’t want. Our home, once overflowing with warmth and love, was now foreign, cold and felt empty as an echoey cavern.
Ryan stood blankly gazing out the picture window that took up almost the entire front wall of our living room, as I broke the news to a close friend by phone between inconsolable wails and sobs. The window looked out to our corner of northeastern Fort Collins suburbia, where four sets of townhomes, ours included, curve around what would eventually turn from a dusty, mid-construction, lightly-snow covered open space to a beautiful shared neighborhood green space.
Thousands of hours were spent with this space in view. Between visiting with neighbors from the front porch where our patio loveseat and hammock chair hung, to working or enjoying a meal in our open-air entryway that acted as a shaded outdoor dining space, to relaxing on our well-worn gray sectional couch on the inside of the window—this little east-facing view was always in sight.
The first few minutes of forced embrace to the transformation of our now excruciatingly quiet, empty-nest home, was softened by what can only be described as divine intervention.
Out of nowhere, a bald eagle descended from the sky and soared seemingly in slow motion, well below the rooflines and just above eye level, down the middle of this span of open neighborhood terrain. Ryan called me over from my phone conversation, just in time to witness the majestic creature flap its giant wings up and away toward somewhere northwest.
While not a falcon, it was the first of many experiences that we have come to understand as Leo playfully making his presence known during the past year. Part 2 of this piece will dive into the genuine amazing ways Leo and his falcons have provided unexpected comfort and awe-inspiring guidance. Close friends have heard these stories, often in real time, as Ryan and I have grappled with impossible decisions and endured the overwhelming longing amidst Leo’s physical absence. These stories are tough to tell, as I know they’ll be difficult for some to believe—I regularly shake my head in disbelief myself—but are absolutely worth the risk in sharing.
Thank you Lewann for continuing to honor Leo and share the time the three of you shared together.💗
The way you write about your sweet boy brings tears of joy to my eyes, and also tears of sadness.
Thanks for sharing, I look forward to the Falcon stories. 🙏🏾💛