Slower

The cardinal is the state bird of Ohio. My mother loved cardinals, the way a lot of midwestern mothers do. The bright red male high in the maple, singing, the chirps loud enough to announce themselves. Cardinal.

When the sweet corn came in, and the farmers set out their self-serve stands of yellow magic, she would turn around in the front seat. Phil, Andy, are you up for a drive in the country. My father went along with it. I wanted the corn, and the stops that might bring home pies, fudge, a jar of local honey.

The country roads started a mile from our house. Big trees, slow creeks, curves that handed you something you had not seen before. Some years there was a canopy of hedge apples and we would stop and take a couple home to look at for a few weeks, sticky with sap, no use to anyone, worth the stop.

When the road straightened my father let the Chevy wagon open up. I told myself he liked the engine. It meant we were close to the end. Every time, like clockwork, she said it. “Phil, slow down. I want us to enjoy the views.” He would ease off, and she would say, not that much.

Cardinals filled the house. At Christmas some years the whole tree went red with them, almost all males, the females and their duller coats left out of it. The feeders in the back were full of black sunflower seed, the pizza of the cardinal clan. There were ceramic ones and felt ones and a glass one that sat on the buffet. The red bird was on the napkins, on her sweaters, on her earrings, on the cap she wore in the sun.

She died in Gowanda, outside Buffalo, in a home we had found for her to be near my sister. The day after, I was at my sister’s and I told her I needed to drive. I took the rental and went, no destination, only the country roads, which had always been where the family went to be calm.

Five minutes out I was choosing between one road and another, the way my father used to, without a word. I took the one that ran toward somewhere more remote. Trees, a field here and there. My speed had climbed without my noticing, and then I heard it. “Andy, slow down.” I lifted my foot and the car dropped. A cardinal crossed the windshield, close enough that I would have hit it if I had not.

Two weeks ago I flew to St. Simons Island, an hour below Savannah, for a friend’s sendoff. His family is there. A small group of us went out and scattered his ashes at sea. He had been trying to find some peace at the end. His body was already past the place where peace was available.

The next day I drove to Savannah the long way, country roads, ninety minutes if you take your time. He loved cars. He loved to drive fast. I found my foot heavy on the pedal, the road closed in on both sides by moss-hung trees and water. Then I heard her. I lifted off. A cardinal crossed the glass in front of me.

I drive slower now.