When my friend Karen was dying of pancreatic cancer in 2024, she gestured toward the picture book atop her bedside table. “Have you read that?” she asked.
I picked up a copy of The Next Place, by Warren Hanson. “I haven’t,” I said. “Do you want me to read it to you?”
“No…” Fatigue laced her words as she told me she had heard it several times. “You read it,” she said, then closed her eyes.
I later learned a friend had loaned Karen the book. It was new to her, too. And she wanted it read at her memorial service.
My dad and mom both died before Karen did, seven years and sixteen months respectively. I have never doubted that they are at peace and in a beautiful place. But as described on Hanson’s website, The Next Place “is a beautifully illustrated celebration of life, and an immeasurable comfort to those who have lost someone dear.”
In the past month, I’ve mentioned Hanson’s book three times: to an acquaintance who lost three family members months apart nearly three years ago, to a friend whose beloved friend died two days before, and to a friend whose grandfather was admitted into hospice care that morning.
None of them had heard of The Next Place. Each accepted my offer to send links to Hanson’s book and this video. Their subsequent thank yous affirmed that they, too, were comforted by the story.
The holiday season always brings tender memories of my mom and dad. I’m grateful for Warren Hanson’s beautiful words. The Next Place has infused those memories with a layer of peace.
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.
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.
