My heart longs for my son, Cooper. Every single day. As if.

It’s winter. My bones ache from this relentless cold; I am chilled from the inside out. The sky is a sorrowful gray, sad and droopy. These winter clouds press down into the treetops, seeking life and color. Any color, even the bare, brown, leafless trees of winter. Then there are the gold-leafed trees, refusing to give up their color. The gold leaves hang lifeless, yet I honor their tenacity.

It’s as if this gray, drab winter mirrors the winter clouds in my soul. I look out the window, then search inside. Same. My heart is consubstantial with the clouds.

I’ve read that parents who have lost a child can develop a “new” relationship with their deceased child. When I first read this, it struck me as quackery.

On further reflection, and as time slowly marches on, the time marches on, I have reconsidered. I think I understand.

I carry Cooper in my heart and in my mind. I walk with him—in my spirit, in my will, in my soul. He’s not gone; he lives within me. All of my children live in me. My wife, too. And my parents. Lest I forget my dogs, them too.

I converse with Cooper, bounce my emerging ideas off him, ask for his input on my upcoming decisions, and pause more frequently to sense his spirit. Are you there, Boy? What have you got to say? And oh, by the way, you’ve got some explaining to do…

In this way, it’s as if I do have a new relationship with Cooper, despite the winter clouds searching the brown leafless treetops in my heart. I have tenacious golden leaves, too. A gift, a grace.

Lest you worry, does Cooper answer me? Not so much as I can tell. Do I sense his spirit when I pause? No, not really, not in the main.

But strange things happen. It’s as if there’s a little more magic, mystery, and miracle within my grasp. Or perhaps I’m just more open to being surprised by magic, mystery, and miracle in my life.

And why not?

I keep my routine. Each day, I touch Cooper’s leather wallet and his stainless steel necklace, after opening the door to let his soul in and out, and I tell him I love him. Then a tingling runs up my back. It’s a strange thing.

The wind chime, chimes, when I whisper morning prayers, and this is mysterious. How is it the Holy Spirit moves again? I have questions.

Not within my grasp, but I see a single red cardinal sitting on the backyard fence in zero-degree weather against a backdrop of snow. It sits, still, fluffed up and aware. This presents as magic. Why, on this day, is a cardinal sitting there, alone? What message is being sent?

Wind chime to cardinal, cloud cover to treetop—in nature and in the soul, the great spirit of life runs back and forth.

In this season of life, do I want to listen to the magical stories of gypsies as they weave great tales of the dead, or do I want to dive further into Western rationalism and understand my stages of grief?

As if.