Where Robins Fly

On the day she left, I waited for it to rain. The clouds looked angry and dark, like they were swollen to the brim with rain that wasn't quite eager enough to fall. I sat on the second stair of my front porch, on the left side where she used to sit. Although it was still early afternoon, the air felt cool and the shadows from the forest were dull and soft. She said she would be back, but I didn't really believe her. She left that morning and disappeared into the trees. She carried a small backpack with some food and clothes, and in her hands, she carried her notebook. The clouds hadn't set in until around noon. 

The first time she told me about them, I was skeptical. She said she’d seen them ever since she was a little girl and that they inspired her to draw. They could be called many names: sprites, fairies, elves, witches, she wasn't really sure what they were. In the end, we called them Robins. She came up with the name, but insisted they were not, in fact, little reddish-brown birds, but entirely different creatures altogether. 

She lived next door and told me how the Robins visited her at night. They told her stories about the forest and how they lived. She drew them, but the drawings were always scratchy and smudged, and they never looked the same. Sometimes, they were creatures with huge wings like butterflies, others, they were humanoid blobs that had animal features like spindly whiskers or floppy ears. 

When we were young her family told her she would eventually grow out of it and forget about her imaginary friends. She tried to show them to me, but even though I lived right next door, they only seemed to visit her, and only when she was alone. I used to stay up all night and look out my window with a pair of binoculars to see them. All I ever saw was the occasional raccoon. I heard not the tweeting of Robins, real or mystical, but only the hooting of owls.  

After I was big and strong enough to climb the rope she dropped down from her window to get to her bedroom on the second floor, we would spend the night together and wait for them. We were teenagers then, and still, I eagerly believed her and was certain it was only a matter of time before I'd see a Robin.

But, no, they only came after I had dozed off, and she would gently shake me awake to show me a new drawing of some kind of random mish-mashed creature. 

At some point I fell in love with her. Maybe I’d always loved her and that's why I wanted so badly to see them. It didn’t really matter to me whether I saw them or not, all I wanted was to make her happy. She seemed happy that I was there beside her, and that was enough. I did my best to defend her to others, but eventually, she didn’t want to talk about them to anyone anymore. It became our secret. 

Then, she actually started drawing birds. Normal birds. Birds of all different kinds. She learned how to add beautiful and detailed shadows and vivid colors. Her parents finally bought her high-quality art supplies. Sketchbooks, ink pens, and colored pencils. They were proud of her for drawing so well, they often wondered from what part of the family her artistic abilities came from. 

Eventually, she didn’t want to talk about the Robins with me anymore either. I never asked why, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what her parents said about how she would grow out of it, and how she remained passionate about them for so long. She waited until after we had graduated high school to tell me that she’d been accepted into an art school in New York. Of course, I was happy for her, but I never got the chance to tell her how I felt before she left. 

My life continued on its expected path, the one that was laid out for me since I was born. I finished high school with average grades and worked full-time in my parents’ bakery. The smell of freshly baked bread was the first smell I could ever remember. I baked perfect loaves of bread from memory by the time I was ten. I had a passion for it, but often wondered if I actually felt it or if it was only there because my parents wanted it to be.

She often told me about New York when we talked over the phone. She said the city was nice and when I asked her if she liked it better than home, she said she wasn’t sure. She missed sitting with me on the porch and staring at the forest while we nibbled on bread. She said that sometimes she missed drawing for fun without deadlines and harsh critiques. 

After her first year, I was ecstatic to hear she would visit for spring break. The forest was always beautiful in the spring and had already recovered from a mild winter. I had planned to make her bread so we could sit together, and she could show me her drawings and then I’d tell her that I loved her. 

In the weeks that led up to her return, her demeanor changed. She was sad and more uncertain. She talked about quitting art school and running away. She told me she wanted to see me one more time before she left for good. 

When spring break had come, we sat together briefly before she walked into the forest and I waited for the rain. There was no bread, she didn’t talk of her drawings or show me any, and I didn’t tell her I loved her. 

Instead, she asked me if I remembered the Robins. I did, of course, and told her that I thought of them often. She laughed and I tried to remember the way it sounded in case I never heard it again. She said it was silly that I still believed her when no one else did. 

Then she stood up, put on her backpack, and told me she was going for a walk in the forest. She said she would be back later, but she didn’t tell me when. 

I sat there nervously as the afternoon drew on. I wanted to follow her. Perhaps I didn't want her to come back. Maybe she was better off not returning at all, and I began to wonder if the same was true for me as well. 

I stood up and took a few steps off the porch into the yard. The first drops of rain started to fall. I ran through the forest in search of her. The thickly interwoven leaves of the treetops held back the rain until it turned from a drizzle into a downpour. 

My hair hung in my face and my clothes stuck to my body. The rain was cold but the humidity made the air thick.

Then, I saw her. She stood under a large tree that shielded her from most of the rain. She used her notebook to cover her head and looked out into the distance. She must not have cared that the notebook was soggy and ruined. I watched her from afar for a moment. 

I realized that some small part of me hoped I'd see them then. The Robins. Maybe even then only she could see them off in the distance, moving gracefully through the rain. The only thing I saw was her. The Robins were not for me to see unless she showed them to me in the only way she could. 

I walked up to her and she smiled at me. There was something soft and sweet behind that smile. I took the soiled notebook from her and opened it but the pages were blank. 

"Have you ever danced in the rain?" She asked. 

I shook my head. She took the notebook from my hands and laid it against the tree stump with her backpack. 

"Let's run together," she held out her hand. 

I held onto her tightly and we ran. I wondered what would happen when the rain stopped. I wondered if everything would go back to the way it was before. 

After a while, she let go of me and I watched her spin and dance, her face turned towards the sky and her eyes closed. The rain lessened. She opened her eyes to look at me. 

"I think I love you," she said.