When the Night Called Out

A daughter, a fading mother, and the mysterious bird that woke me up in more ways than one.

At first, I thought it was a young child crying, crying out for help. Who could it be? It was the middle of the night. I wasn’t sure of the exact time. It was pitch black outside. Was a child being kidnapped? I thought about all the Amber Alerts I get on my iPhone when a child goes missing. But there was no alert. Was this the beginning of something horrific?

I never sleep through the night. Bathroom trips wake me—once, sometimes twice, sometimes three times. I slip out of bed carefully. The night light in the room I’m staying in—my mother’s little villa—is my old childhood clock, I found in storage. It has a swing with a little boy and girl, and a small bulb lights their motion. I was thrilled when I found it again. A relic from 1960, a gift when I was five. Back then, in a childhood marked by fear and illness, that clock gave me comfort. I treasured it. Still do.

My room is off the small vestibule at the front of the house. My blinds open to it, but I keep them closed. I don’t want anyone looking in.

Living with an Echo Dot nearby, I always ask Alexa the time when I’m awakened. Usually, my trips are around 2 a.m. and 4 a.m.—and it’s the last one I struggle to fall back asleep from. Before I know it, I’m grabbing my phone, getting lost in reading, scrolling through articles, social media posts, and watching videos. And then my sleep is done. There’s no going back to it.

But this night, something was different.

The sound was sharp, cutting, insistent. When I realized it wasn’t a child but a bird, just outside my window, it felt like more than a cry. It felt like a message.

Was it my deceased father? My brother? Was someone trying to reach me?

Mom has been declining. The smallest acts—putting on socks, bending into pants—exhaust her. She’s stopped opening the blinds in her room. They stay closed unless I lift them. I try to let the light in. She doesn’t care. She lies in bed, tired but content.

She’s told me she’s ready to go. She said it softly, looking at me steadily, as if to reassure me. Not dramatic. Just a fact. “I’ve had a long life,” she said. And she has—she’s nearly 102.

But I’m not ready. I’m not ready to lose her.

The bird kept screeching—a high-pitched wail, not soothing but urgent. Determined. What was the message? Who was calling?

Dad, is it you? Are you warning me? Telling me to prepare her? Or myself?
Irwin? Nana? No—Nana wouldn’t yell. She’d be soft-spoken. But Dad yelled. So did Irwin. It must be one of them.

I wanted Mom to hear it. It was 6:30 a.m., still dark. I walked into her room. Her face glowed in the light of her iPad. She was playing bridge. She doesn’t like being interrupted mid-game. Once she rotated between Candy Crush, NumFeud, and Words with Friends. Now, it’s mostly bridge. Though I still catch her sneaking in the others now and then.

I didn’t have time to wait.
“Mom, there’s a bird that’s been screaming all night. Did you hear it?”

She shook her head. Her room is in the back of the house. She couldn’t hear a thing.

“Please come. I want you to hear this,” I said.

She sighed, not annoyed but hesitant. Then she slowly rose, turned to the side, and swung her legs off the bed. Her expression was calm, maybe a little curious. She reached for her walker. I watched her hands grip the cool metal handles. Her back, now hunched, used to be so straight. She shuffled carefully to the front door. I wanted to help her, but I also wanted to let her move at her own pace.

I stepped outside with the flashlight I bought for Hurricane Milton. Of course, Mom still has the old flashlights from the 69-cent store. All long dead. I turned to Amazon for something reliable, small but powerful LED flashlights. They reach far.

It was quiet now.

I aimed the beam at the big tree out front. No movement. I traced the branches. Stillness. I stepped past the house, hoping to hear the cry again. But there was only silence.

The sky was beginning to lighten.

Had the bird left? Was it nocturnal? Would it return?
I didn’t know what kind of bird it was. Or what it meant. Or who it was.

Days later, I went to fetch Mom’s mail. The wail returned—sharp, unmistakable. This time in the late afternoon. I looked up and saw a bird with a large beak—something like a heron.

I remembered the herons that used to dive into Irwin’s koi pond, snatching the fish he loved. He was heartbroken. Eventually, he netted the pond to protect them.

He’d never been an animal person. No pets in the house. But later in life, when cancer came, and the kids were grown and his wife had passed, he built that pond. He chose the fish carefully, with help from an expert. They became his children. He fed them daily. Loved them.

And now, one of those same types of birds—maybe even a relative—was the one crying outside my window.

A man nearby, washing his car, saw me looking up.
“They come around this time of year,” he said. “So loud.”

“What kind of bird is it?” I asked.

“Limpkin,” he said.

I’d never heard of them. But apparently, they’re known as the crying bird. Related to cranes. Found in warm wetlands like those here in Florida.

Now, when I wake at night, I listen for the cry.
But I haven’t heard it again.

Maybe I will. Or maybe it came just once, to let me know that something is coming.
And that somehow, I need to be ready.

Gayle Kirschenbaum is an Emmy-winning filmmaker, photographer, writer, coach, and speaker. Her film LOOK AT US NOW, MOTHER! premiered on Netflix and has been credited with transforming lives. Her TED talk is “No More Drama with Mama.” Gayle co-authored Mildred's Mindset: Wisdom from a Woman Centenarian with her mother, centenarian influencer Mildred Kirschenbaum. Gayle's upcoming memoir is Bullied to Besties: A Daughter's Journey to Forgiveness.
To learn more visit GayleKirschenbaum.com.
Follow Gayle & Mildred on Instagram and TikTok @glkirschenbaum