His brown little body fluttered in the curve of my hand, as if to say, “Hello, old friend, I’ve missed you, remember me?”
I’ll call him, Wesly.
To dream of a hummingbird is good luck. He’s the only one who’s visited me. Second time in a year, to show me what life really is world beneath worlds, that we are not broken down in property lines and family ties, yours and mine, us vs. them.
We are one.
His warm, vibrating body felt like a hug from the cosmos. An affirmation.
Invisible hands turning me toward my true reflection. Patting me on the back.
I felt the words penetrate and course through me, as I typed them in a text to a bereaving friend who lost her troubled brother to alcoholism.
“He is Wesly. It is what we believe.”
She responded out of nowhere, as my heart fluttered, rippling painful currents through my chest. “I saw the hummingbird today, twice. Thank you.”
I know you. I’ve always known. We can never be separated by birth.