Robin

The sun reflects on the windshield, causing temporary blindness and illuminating the filth that has accumulated since I last went through the car wash. I squint like I need a rather thick pair of glasses and pull down the sun visor. The road begins to repaint itself in front of my eyes.

We are on a long stretch of highway, single lane, that is completely surrounded by trees on either side. Other than the occasional gap between them that's filled with nothing but tall grass. The road is mostly shaded, but open spaces between the trees and branches allow the sun to occasionally peak through and wash the landscape canvas blank.

“I love being surrounded by nature. I’m glad we did this.” My wife says from the passenger seat.

She is slightly reclined, looking up from a half finished novel. She’s wearing a forward facing baseball cap repping our son's t-ball team, The Braves, and a shirt to match. We always say we’ll do things like this more often, but we rarely seem to get around to it. I reach over and intertwine her hand to mine.

“Me too.” I say. 

“Daddy, are we there yet?” Chris says from the backseat.

I look into the rearview mirror and lock eyes with him for a moment.

“We’re getting close, son.” I say to him and he thankfully turns his focus back out the window.

We’re not close, but I'm afraid if I don’t tell him that then he might start to get fussy.

I turn on the radio at a low volume and my wife goes on reading. My son's head starts to bob up and down and his eyelids open and shut like he might fall asleep.

Please, please fall asleep.

Out of my peripheral vision I notice a lot of movement out the window to either side of me. Birds have begun to manifest in the trees. They swoop out from between the branches and perch in the direction of the road, as if to form a crowd to watch a parade where we are currently the only float.

“Honey, do you see this?” I say, with wonder.

She looks up from her book.

“Why are there so many? I’ve never seen this many at once.”

She digs in her purse lying on the floorboard and pulls out her digital Nikon camera.

“I don’t know, it's peculiar.” I say.

Even as I speed by at 55 plus, there seems to be a never ending supply of them continuing to form along the highway greenery. She rolls her window down and attempts to take a photo.

“Can you stop for a minute?” She asks.

There’s been no one else on this highway for over an hour, so I have no trouble doing so. I pull over onto the shoulder and put on my hazard lights, just in case. I look over my shoulder at Chris who has fallen asleep.

All of the trees as far out as we can see begin to fill with birds of many colors, like they’re filling in a Paint-by-Numbers kit.

At a standstill, I start to feel overwhelmed with the amount of them.

Then, a small bird flies through the window and onto my dashboard. It sits there, perched. I feel like it’s staring at me directly, although I know that’s all in my head. My wife slowly veers her focus to the small bird and snaps a few shots.

“It’s so beautiful.” She says. Almost in a whisper.

The bird has a dark, fiery face. A color that sits somewhere on the color spectrum between orange and red, but closer to orange. Its eyes and beak resemble the face of the world's tiniest snowman. Its head is flat and its back and bottom are a light gray. It suddenly takes off, flies into the backseat and perches on the headrest right above my son. He’s not yet tall enough to reach it. My wife snaps another picture.

I turn back toward the front to turn the radio off and out of the windshield I notice that about 20 or so birds of the same size and similar coloring are perched on our hood. I lightly brush my wife's shoulder.

“Jess? Look.”

She turns around and is too stunned to even hold the camera up. I glance in the rearview mirror and lock eyes with the bird who is still towering above my son.

“I wonder what kind they are.” I say, mostly thinking out loud.

My wife reaches back into her purse and pulls out her cellphone. I’m surprised she’s able to get service, but she Googles it.

“Some of the ones in the trees are different, but both the ones on the front of the car and the one in the car is called a robin.” She says.

Robin. 

Suddenly, my son starts to toss and turn a little and then opens his eyes. The robin is now on the seat opposite of my son, like a hitchhiker prepared to join us on our journey.

“A bird?!” My son says enthusiastically.

He reaches out to try to pet it.

“Christopher, don’t.” My wife says to him, sternly.

Chris turns, ready to argue with his mother, but becomes distracted before he has a chance. He looks through the front windshield at all of the birds on board. He begins asking questions.

“Why are there so many??”

“What do they eat?”

“Do they sing songs? Some birds sing songs.”

“Why are we stopped?”

My wife and I take turns giving either a brief answer or a brief “I don’t know, Chris.” 

We sit there, making attempts to answer my sons questions and absorbing the beauty and company of the birds for what seems like an hour, although it was probably only 5 minutes or so.

I try my best not to get irritated at my sons curiosity. I understand it in that moment more than any other time because I, too, am filled with curiosity. I have so many questions and if there was someone with me that I thought could answer my questions, i'd rattle them off too.

Finally, I say we should get going.

“We don’t want to get to Fortridge too late. We’ll still have to set up the tent.” I say.

My wife turns back around to face our visitor.

“What about the bird?” She asks.

We both look back at it again. It hasn’t tried to escape once, nor have any of the rest of them tried to get in. It hasn't even made a sound. Almost like it intended to come in here with us for a reason and it wasn't going to leave until it's purpose was fulfilled.

I reach out my hand to it.

My son starts to protest because he was told not to do the same, but my wife interjects.

I lay my palm flat against the nylon seat and it hesitates for a second, but then steps one foot and then the other into my palm. I roll my own window down and hold it out in the fresh air. It stands there for a moment, the wind softly ruffling its feathers. I was a little worried it might fly back inside the car, but it didn't.

It began to flutter and then it took off. The rest of the birds on the windshield followed, like rehearsed choreography. They dove back into the trees, escaping back into the tunnels of light, including most of the birds perched on the branches. They vacate the area as if the parade has ended and they can all go home.

I look over at my wife and we both smile at each other. She nods and places her camera back in her bag. I turn my hazards off and get back on the highway. My son begins rattling off more questions.

”Can we get a bird??”

“Can we go swimming in the lake?”

“Is there gonna be bears at the park?!?”

My wife and I take turns answering again.

“Are we there yet, dad?” He asks.

“Almost.” I say. “We’re getting really close.”

Once my son falls asleep again and the car is quiet, my wife grabs her book back off the floor and opens it to continue reading. This lasts a few moments before she shuts it and places it in her lap.

“Honey?” She asks. “I know I'm only a few months, but regardless of the sex, I really want to name them Robin.” She says.

Robin. 

I smile, lock my fingers with hers once again and drive on.