Amma, as the osprey, comes back on March 15th.

She’s fierce, like the osprey, with a look in her eyes that’s focused – on whatever’s about to make her laugh, or wherever her next beer is coming from, depending on the time of her life, or on where my Afi’s shirt is untucked, or where his suspenders need tightening.

Amma’s claws are silver and sharp, like the osprey. She used them to do tender things, like carve the pumpkins on my pajamas and bake them into little pies as she put me to sleep.

Amma is beautiful, like the osprey, in a way that suggests you better not fuck with her.

Amma ate fish, like the osprey, and like any Icelander. It’s easy to imagine her coming back to this world, talons extended, diving at the water, dipping her feet in to grab a tasty fish, and never letting go.

Amma is a force of nature, like the osprey, whose moods come and go with the annual migration, or even faster, sometimes flashing unexpectedly to a side of her that, though different from what you knew before, is still extremely honest.

Amma’s life had seasons which, like the osprey, she chose to weather, stick out, until it got warmer. Then, she would fly back to the parts of herself that she liked more, that loved more gently.

If you look out for her, you might get to know her too –

See, Amma, as the osprey, comes back on March 15th.