She Flew Away

Every spring there I have a visitor. She has a long slim neck, sharp facial features decorated with the softest edges you'll ever see, and she's a terrible singer. Though each summer, once she's gone, I do ache in the silence. For the most part she wanders the back edge of my too-large for me property, every now and then I take my morning walk a little too close and she lectures me and moves back farther.

She nests during the spring, and raises one little one if she's lucky. Then by summer she's moving on, and I'm tidying up her space for her return in the next season. This spring she left me a gift in return for my acquaintanceship, a grey feather so soft it almost feels like holding nothing at all. A feather of a Great Blue Heron. Left just for me.

I don't always consider myself a superstitious person, but my coworker nudged me to read about the meaning behind the bird's feather. I laughed, and agreed to add it to my endless to-do list. Then after a week of no updates from me, she couldn't wait any longer and sent me a link. I clicked it, and it pulled me right into an article that was written for a tacky magazine, right alongside your weekly horoscope types.

"...The Great Blue Heron and her feathers are a call to your feminine independence. Often a sign of a woman completely living in her own way, on her own terms. The heron reminds us who we are when we are most at ease, and most in charge of our own fate."

I decided that was plenty fitting, I had stood on my own now for close to four years after leaving my marriage. The property was well maintained and a sanctuary to myself and my closest friends. We joke that we're a coven in the woods, but none of us really take it more seriously than lighting candles and mixing up our midnight margaritas. I suppose many people in my inner circle would agree that I am letting my feminine independence lead me through life, now.

***

It's been six months since she dropped her feather, and I am expecting the heron to return for only a moment on her journey to wherever she spends her long winter nights. My life has changed so much in the last season. I met someone wonderful, we started talking in the break room. Really hit it off, right from the start.

He's charming, and always arrives with a little something. He brings flowers, or wine, or chocolates when I'm feeling down. He answers when I call, and messages first. It's constantly surprising to feel so understood, so well suited to someone else.

We spend our weekends together, and it's like we've known each other for decades. The quiet times are peaceful, the fun times are thrilling. I see this going far. I think I might even want it to go for the long run with this one.

My friend has not returned. I almost didn't notice the silence of her absence in all the excitement of late. I hope she's doing okay out there.

***

Another six months has gone by, and my feathered friend has stayed away. My coworker says she knew she'd be away, and perhaps her gift was her final message. As if it was her way of saying goodbye. The feather sits in my nightstand drawer. I take it out to remind myself she was real. I think of what her message may have been for me, and if it truly was her last.

I stick the feather into the potted cactus on my windowsill. It's supposed to bloom each Christmas, but it's been there for three years and I'm starting to wonder if it's even still alive. Here the feather can watch over us, and all the dirty dishes that land in the sink on those busy weeks of work. I clear a drawer for the arrival of his own favorite kitchen utensils.

His boxes arrive over the course of a week. We get busy with work, and cleaning, and final repairs at his old apartment. My home feels ready to welcome him in. My space isn't feeling invaded, but as if it's gained life. We talk about adopting a puppy. I wonder if one will chase away my old friend.

The first blooms of spring fight their way through morning frosts, and the creek rises up the bed. Soon the reeds will grow tall and thick, once more. Still, my friend has not returned. I tidy up her annual bed, anyway. I hope I see her again soon.

***

The seasons have changed, and it's been over a year since she came by. She should be on her winter migration any day, now. This time I'm so sure she'll stop through. Or maybe I only hope for her company, once more. Things are quiet in the house. It hardly feels worthy of being called my home. It's cluttered with sports insignia, and sci-fi figurines I couldn't pronounce without a chuckle rising from his seat across the room.

I don't want to leave, but I know I miss being on my own. We don't fight, and he's not cruel. We don't talk, at least not beyond the daily check-ins we feel obligated to get through over each microwaved dinner.

He asks why I keep such an ugly feather in a pot with a dead cactus, and gives me a lecture on the feng shui of the room even though he's never left the Midwest. I am embarrassed to be embarrassed by his comment. One day when he won't notice, I clean the windowsill. The plant gets dumped, though I can't part with my small gift. Back to the nightstand drawer her feather will go.

I gaze out the window most mornings, before he's awake, or after he's gone to work. I left that company, now I work from home. The computer doesn't feel as easy to maneuver without the banter of coworkers at the desks surrounding yours. The property is too quiet for work, it's too quiet for life.

And still, my friend has not returned to her leaf covered spot.

***

The holidays are coming up, and we need to decide who's family we'll visit. We are splitting custody of our holiday conversation between our parents, and it leaves no time for friends. Some of my circle has given up on trying, while a couple still message can we count you in for each RSVP request I don't have the capacity to return.

I feel my spirit crawling in my skin, I'm angry and can't explain it and my moods were threatening to reach the surface. I don't hate him, and I don't want to get upset. He seems so at ease in our dullness, and who am I to stir it all up with no rhyme or reason.

It's the middle of November, and our fourth heavy snow is looming. I hope it won't interrupt our holiday plans, he's already so stressed about traveling to his hometown. Though, truly I hope it's a blizzard. I hope, for once, we just get to stay home. I hope we spend time together, and still enjoy each moment.

It's still not a fight, but I feel like I lost one. My cheeks burn, and my eyes sting with a cold singe. I put on my coziest sweater, and not my best winter boots, and I set out on a stroll. The snow crunches under each step. I wish I wasn't leaving a trail of footprints, but I know he won't follow me out. The air stings my cheeks as it freezes my tears halfway down toward my chin.

The numbness sets in, and I feel the comforting embrace of a prosperous year for our watersheds and ski slopes. I let my tears run freely, and cover my face with my soft gloves.

Squawk!

Her call was so loud I choked on a breath. Then the breath wasn't quick to return as I was so stunned to see her here. She was back, and in the snow! I ask her if she's lost, or if she simply got lost in the storm. That made the most sense. She squawked at me again. I sat down, completely in awe.

She's never approached me like this. She looked straight at me, as if she's trying to tell me something, I don't understand her language, and she can't understand mine. She settled onto her feet, and nestled her head in her wing to rest. Still looking over at me while I wiped my face clean. She stood by as I took my deep breath, and stood to go back inside. This time I didn't feel the desperate need to apologize.

I made my way back into the house, back to my home. When he heard the door he made a failed joke about wondering if I was going to come back or if he'd have to shovel me out of a drift somewhere. I didn't respond, and that must have been the right response to garner his attention. He looked over the back of the sofa into the dining room where I stood removing my snow covered layers.

When I still didn't speak he turned further lifting his shoulders up to rest on his elbows. I gathered a boldness that wasn't one I was known to carry, and told him point blank I wouldn't be going home with him for the holidays. He looked so authentically surprised. I continued to suggest I think it's time we move into our separate lives, and that I needed him to start looking for a place at start of the new year.

He took it all in, silently, nodding through his processing of the words that left my mouth. He said that's okay, and he would get on it as soon as he can find a place. We agreed it would be easier to end things as soon as we can manage, before we find reasons to hate each other. He goes to his family's home for the week. I join a friendsgiving last minute, and bake a perfect autumn pie as an apology for the last minute RSVP. My friends tell me they made enough food for me, anyway.

My feathered friend stays. It snows heavily, and she shakes the small mounds off her back. Then she stays. The ground is visible where she's been laying during the storms. She keeps the tiny blades of grass warm under the blanket of white.

He doesn't return after Thanksgiving, just sends a text that he found a place, will be by to pack tomorrow. I didn't ask where, or how he found a place so fast. If I'm being honest with myself I just no longer cared. The heron looks toward the house, I make sure the creek doesn't totally freeze. Once the snow stops, and still she stays.

His boxes are packed, and he stands back trying not to hug me goodbye. I can see the conflict in his stance, the confusion in his eyes. The last box is loaded into the truck, and he stares from the bed of the truck hoping for the right words to say. They never surfaced, no matter how he wanted it to sound. The goodbye was simple, and he got into the truck. He left, and my old friend stayed.

Until the next morning, when she squawked at me while I drank my morning coffee in the chair by an open window. It felt so good to let the fresh air carry the tension away. I pulled her feather from the nightstand. This time it was placed proudly on the end table by my graduation portrait. She flaps her wings a few times.

Then with a brief flurry of grey, she flew away.