Two of them are in my back yard, perched on the yet-to-bloom forsythia as they wait for their time at the feeder. Traditionally, cardinals are departed loved ones come to visit. Attending a funeral, finishing The Secret of Secrets (Dan Brown’s latest Robert Langdon novel), Palm Sunday ushering in Holy Week, watching the cardinals in my yard: death hovers over my days.

Most people don’t want to talk about death, whether or not they claim and are claimed by a faith. There are a few exceptions – those who have had near-death experiences, those who are dying and have made peace with it, and the enlightened few such as the Dalai Lama. Death is just a part of life to be accepted rather than feared for them. They may not focus on death, but they don’t deny its existence or their own inevitable end. They give death a nod and get on with their day, grateful for and loving what the day brings.

Perhaps I should think of the cardinals as death’s presence gracing my life – acknowledge that death is real and appreciate the winged reminder that I will soon enough be a departed soul. It might make talking about death easier; it might make talking about death a relief.