Rosalie Hale Bopp: January 1, 1997 to October 22, 2007
The other spirit making an appearance into the Asha Chronicles is AsaMina's Daddy Bird, my R.B. Bird Leonardo. He was and I believe still is, my gaurdian angel, the little feathered soul that God sent down to keep an eye on me and keep me safe. Over R.B. Birds not quite 16 years, I always hoped I'd taken as good a care of him as he did of me. As I type this post, I'm one week shy of turning 41 years old. All that has happened between my 24th birthday and now is because of my R.B. Bird. It was he who literally saved my life from an abusive first husband. My neighbor never once heard me scream due to sleeping during the day and working nights. But, boy could she hear R.B. Bird scream, loud and clear. It was his shriek that woke her and had her call the police 'to get the stupid bird to be quiet so she could sleep'. The 'Idiot' (politest name for my ex I can think of), would stop hitting me when he saw the police car driving up. No R.B. Bird, no annoyed neighbor, no police car, no me. R.B. Bird and his biological sister Moana terrified a burglar and sent him running one night when I was home alone. And, my little grey angel and the universes hugest fan of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, also alerted my 9 unit apartment building to a small fire in more than enough time for all of us to evacuate. So, yes, he too lives on and isn't really 'gone'. R.B. Bird, I believe continues to watch over us, most of the time through his daughter AsaMina, who is nearly a clone of him and his sister Moana (April-Moana O'Neil, for long), and in the stories, I use his gifts to help The Feathered Four. The picture posted of him is his most famous picture.
R.B. Bird Leonardo: January 16, 1991 to November 11, 2006
R.B. Bird Leonardo: January 16, 1991 to November 11, 2006
[it was fitting he crossed over the Rainbow Bridge on Veterans Day after all the battles he fought and won]
Hope Is The Thing With Feathers--- by Emily Dickenson
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
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