A few months after Cory passed, a woman online who resonated with our story messaged me:
"Keep talking to Cory. And tomorrow at 5 PM, sit quietly—you’ll feel and hear more."
"Why 5 PM?" I asked.
"You'll see," she replied.
The next day, while attending my niece’s brewery opening in New Orleans, I glanced at the time—4:55 PM.
I told my then husband, "I need a few minutes alone."
I stood in a nearby park beneath two oaks beside a statue of a woman and child.
Two homeless men lingered nearby.
When the church bells struck five, I felt a wave of presence.
Tears welled up in my eyes.
A man passed by and greeted another homeless man.
Was this the sign? But he kept walking.
Still unsure, I turned back to the car, grabbed my tote of socks and quote cards, and walked over to a man lying on the grass.
"Hi, I’m Denise."
"And I’m George," he smiled.
"Need some socks or water?"
"How about just a friend?" he replied, locking eyes with mine.
I sat with him and knew instantly—this was a divine encounter with Cory.
“We’re the same age,” he said.
“Really?” I replied, puzzled. “How old are you?”
“52,” he said, showing me his ID—born the same year, on April Fool’s Day!
He shared his story—raised in Monterey, California.
Once a heavy weed smoker on the beaches where he worked as a life guard.
Volunteered for the Red Cross, flown to New Orleans during Katrina.
Put up in a suite, he chose instead to live on a park bench and never left.
He worked daily among the homeless, not caring for material things.
As he spoke, I wept.
Every detail echoed Cory—his time on the beaches of San Diego and when he saved a friend from drowning, his service to others, the time he helped people during Katrina, his avoidance of dental work after the bike accident, his choice to intentionally live homeless in the Greenbelt of Austin, his minimalist ways.
I gave him a compliment card:
"The world is grateful you exist."
He asked about Cory. I shared. He offered condolences.
I gifted him Cory’s book. He insisted I sign it.
He casually pulled back his shirt collar to show me a scar.
“Broke my collarbone in a bike accident.”
“Why did you tell me that?” I gasped. “Cory also had a bike accident!”
Soon it was time to leave, and as George walked with me to the brewery, he told stories of hammocks in Costa Rica, black panthers beneath the trees—another Cory echo.
He met my family. They were curious, but not surprised.
They know I connect with souls society overlooks.
A few days later I called Jorge (his real name).
I told him, "You were channeling Cory."
"I know," he said simply.
Soon after, his number stopped working.
He disappeared like a spirit on the wind.
Had I ignored the intuitive nudge, I would have missed this sacred exchange.
What a profound blessing to have been supported by Cory’s presence through so many creative ways.
——————
If you’re struggling with the trauma of loss, know that you don’t have to navigate this path alone.
I would love to hear from you and learn more about your journey.
I invite you to join our Healing Hearts Community, where together we can share, grow, and heal.
Learn more through the link below:
Healing Hearts Support for Bereaved Parents
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