Bluebirds were abundant in my dreams.
Their red bellies and deep blue feathers made a striking contrast against the emerald leaves as they zipped back and forth between the trees, fluttering with enthusiasm and chirping softly and repeatedly as if they were trying to convey a message.
I held up my hand, palm up, and marvelled as a small male thrush briefly hovered over my hand before settling on my fingertip. I gingerly raised my other hand to pet his back as he gave me a soft little chirp and nibbled at my flesh.
And as soon as my fingertip touched his velvety feathers, I knew who this bluebird belonged to.
Aunt Amos.
He used to refer to me as his "little bluebird," an indication from the angels that not all of the light in his life had gone out after his wife passed away. I had a small bluebird tattooed on my hip as a sign of hope, joy, and success because of this.
