I was energized by a coed book club’s discussion about Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools last month. Our conversation wove around my writing process and the book’s themes and characters. Some readers wished for a map. Others wished for recipes. Two weeks later, I created a TikTok account to share slices of Missoula, recipes and more.

Three days ago, I headed to Memorial Rose Garden Park, hoping to videotape a crow.

A bit of backstory—

My dad’s (misspelled) name, Dan Antonietti, is memorialized there on the Montana State Vietnam Veterans Memorial Committees plaque.

Dad died in January 2017. Months later, family members gathered on Father’s Day in remembrance of our patriarch. As we shared brunch around my mom’s dining room table, a crow perched on the deck railing outside the sliding glass door. “That’s Papa,” I said.

Knives and forks stilled as three generations studied the sleek black bird. He studied us back.

Ever since, I have looked and listened for crows. I’ve asked Papa for signs of support, too. When Mom, a child of the Great Depression, struggled with feelings of guilt about buying a wall-mounted TV and small dining set before downsizing into a senior living apartment, a crow landed atop Best Buy.

Another—or perhaps the same—cawed from a light post outside a furniture shop. “Papa’s saying, ‘Thumbs up, Catherine Ann,'” I said.

Mom looked at me and grinned.

On move-in day, a bittersweet heaviness hung in the air. I begged Papa to let us know he was with us. As Mom and I drove into the parking lot of her new home, a crow settled high atop the flagpole where an American flag rippled in the breeze. I gestured toward the perfect vantage point for our proud, World War II veteran. “There’s Papa,” I managed, the words thick in my throat.

“This is a nice place, Papa,” Mom said. Her blue eyes sparkled when she met my gaze.

I have felt my dad’s presence at other times, too. When I pulled out my cellphone to call Mom on their sixty-third wedding anniversary, the first since Dad died, “MOM…calling” appeared on my cellphone screen before I tapped a single button.

Three weeks later, a document titled “Dad extra” popped open on my computer screen while I was working on my novel. Memories of the question he’d often asked, “How’s your book coming, Sweetheart?” rolled through my mind.

The day I posted a picture of Papa and Gov. Steve Bullock on my blog page, a new tab opened to my website. And as I lay in bed early one morning reading Proof of Angels, a burst of static erupted, then stopped. When the static resumed a minute later, I reached for the clock radio. Unused for years, the radio was on.

So, when I neared Rose Park three days ago, I spoke in the quiet of my heart. I need you, Papa.

Entering the park, I heard Caw Caw Caw.

I didn’t spot him right away.

Caw Caw Caw Caw Caw.

I looked up. There was a crow, perched high in a tree. He stayed there for three minutes, and I posted a bit of him on TikTok the following day.

Yesterday, I opened my phone’s camera, selected front-facing video, then propped the phone against a lamp. Instead of hitting the red record button, I moved away to check the screen view. Moments later, my image disappeared and the TikTok video—saved to my Photos app—began to play.

Papa is with me still.