Bird in Hand

Rosie dotingly brushed her timeworn fingers over the letter, admiring the fine linen feel, the careful cursive, even the unsteady hand behind the tiny bird drawn in the lower right corner. She had read it at least once a day, and could recite it word for word, but one line illuminated her spirit more than any.

Throughout all these years, the one memory I’ve held dearest is you.

April 23rd, Easter Monday, 1984. Only a month before, Rosie had purchased her first set of binoculars -- big, clunky Bushnells, the kind you’d see sailors using in movies, but she used them for birdwatching. Since she’d had the day off from college, she decided to spend the early morning hours in the Metroparks, notebook tucked under the crook of her arm and binoculars swaying awkwardly from her neck. All the world seemed within her vision as she scanned tree after tree, occasionally pausing to jot down Black-Capped Chickadee or Robin or Shrike.

Amusingly, however, Frank noticed her before she’d even come close to spotting him.

He sat, picnic basket propped on a rock and coffee thermos in hand, by the side of the river. Beside him lay his trusty Nikon and a well-thumbed copy of The Decisive Moment, and onto his face crept a curious smile as he watched Rosie walk, pause, and turn in circles with her binoculars pointed upwards.

In all my travels, I’ve never met a woman so full of life as you.

A pair of squirrels darted across the forest floor and scurried up a tree, chittering at each other all the way. Rosie lowered her binoculars and laughed softly to herself, watching them weave back and forth across the bark, until they disappeared into a hollow. Quarreling squirrels, she wrote in her notebook. It was only then that she turned towards the river, gazing out at it with a happy sigh, and startled herself at the sight of Frank -- who immediately averted his gaze and tried to look busy with his book.

“Did you see that?” she called out to him, pointing up to where the squirrels had gone. She was in too good of a mood to not be neighborly, even if she hadn’t expected to see a soul.

“What’s that? Oh, no, but I heard them,” he answered. “Squirrels, right?”

“Yeah,” Rosie laughed. “They’re really feisty today.”

“It’s springtime. They can’t help it,” he replied. “I got a nice shot of a mother curled around her babies just this morning.” He cleared his throat softly, searching for something interesting to say. “Did you know a squirrel’s nest is called a drey?”

“No,” said Rosie, shaking her head. “That’s an odd word. Drey.”

Frank nodded, and silence drifted down between them. After a moment, Rosie lifted her binoculars as if she were giving him a drinking salute, saying, “Not much time left until the birds quiet down. I’d better get going.”

“Say, uh, hold on.” Frank held up his thermos in response just as she turned to leave. “Would you like some coffee? Or some lunch?” He gestured towards his picnic basket. “I made too much. Please. I hate to waste it.”

Rosie paused, glancing about to see if anyone else was around. Nothing but crickets. If he were up to no good, she’d be toast. But he seemed nice, even a little bit shy and quiet. “What’s the harm?” she found herself saying, even before she’d fully decided to stay. Frank shrugged, thermos in one hand and book in the other, the very image of harmless awkwardness.

He stood, retrieving a blanket from his picnic basket and laying it out on the ground as Rosie made her way from the trail to the riverbank. He then pulled out two halves of a sandwich, holding one out to her as soon as she was near. “I’m Frank, by the way.”

“Rosie,” she replied. “Pleased to meet you.”

Though conversation was slow to start, once it got rolling they couldn’t seem to stop themselves from finding new things to talk about. Rosie was learning to be a theatre technician, while Frank was nearly finished with his visual arts degree and dreaming of a career in photography. They grew up on different sides of the same city, and even knew some of the same people. Frank had been coming to the Metroparks for years to photograph wildlife, and Rosie had been hiking there since she was a little girl. They had probably passed each other more than once, never knowing how close they’d come to stumbling upon a kindred spirit.

I’ve never forgotten the way you laughed that day by the river.

Long after the coffee was gone, Rosie finally conceded that she should probably head home. “I’ve got class first thing tomorrow, and I still need to do my reading.”

“That’s alright,” said Frank, a bit of sadness hidden behind a smile. “Will you be back to do more bird watching any time soon?”

“I think so,” she replied. “Maybe Thursday, or definitely Friday.”

“You could come and find me, if you’d like,” Frank mused. “I’ll be here for lunch.”

“I just might,” laughed Rosie.

And find him she did, that Friday and many Fridays after. Even through the cold of winter, when lunch became little more than a huddled meeting for hot coffee, the two of them made sure to find each other every possible weekend, sharing their adventures and amazing finds from the past seven days.

On the Friday closest to the anniversary of their meeting, Frank gathered up his courage, packing his picnic basket with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and the loveliest, most perfect rose he could find. Rosie found him standing, flower in hand, eyes fixed on the flow of the river.

“You know, it’s been nearly a year since I first saw you,” he said as she approached, slowly spinning the rose by its stem between his fingertips.

“Frank?” said Rosie, concern making a mouse of her voice. “Are you okay?” She stepped close, touching him on the shoulder as if to soothe him, and realized he was wearing cologne; he smelled of sweet bergamot and something deep and red, like ripe berries.

“Honestly, no,” he sighed. “I’m simultaneously the best and worst I’ve ever been. I want…” He paused, turning towards her, cheeks splotched a blushing pink. “I want today to be a date. I should have asked you first; I realize that now. I’ll understand if you need to think about it. But if you want, I brought wine, and—”

“Is that for me?” she interrupted, trying to appreciatively relieve him of his embarrassment.

“I… oh, yes,” he said, sheepishly handing her the rose.

“Frank,” Rosie breathed, stepping closer, the rose’s petals coming to rest against her collarbone as she held it close to her chest. “I would’ve had a date with you months ago. After the first day, even. I just wasn’t sure if you were interested.”

“Not interested -- are you crazy?” Frank reeled his head and shoulders back dramatically. “You’re the most beautiful woman -- most beautiful person I’ve ever known. How could I not be interested?” He affectionately placed his hands on Rosie’s upper arms, his glowing gaze meeting hers. “I can’t… I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re interested in me. I’m the luckiest man on Earth because of that.”

Rosie lifted her chin and leaned upwards, the rose pressed between her chest and his as their lips met in a tender, lingering kiss. As the world around them melted away, she couldn’t help but feel as though she’d found the one person in the world who fit perfectly against her, both in body and in spirit. Together they stood, entwined in one another’s embrace, simply holding each other in contented silence long after the kiss had broken.

Eventually, Frank gave her hair a feather-light nuzzle, murmuring, “You know, I brought wine.”

With a tiny laugh, Rosie pulled back slightly and grinned up at him. “Well then, I do believe we should have some.”

Like so many times before, they sat and talked by the river -- except this time Rosie was curled in the safety of Frank’s arm, head resting on that wonderful divot where his shoulder and chest met, both of them utterly enchanted by the sheer joy of striding beyond the boundaries of friendship.

“I think,” said Frank, pouring out the last two glasses of merlot, “we should do this again. Two weeks from today, does that sound good?”

“Why not next week?”

“Because of my interview?” Frank squinted a little bit at her, a puzzled furrow growing on his brow.

“Your interview?” Rosie bubbled excitedly, sitting up straight.

“Yeah, my… wait, didn’t I tell you?”

“No, you didn’t tell me!” she laughed, poking him playfully. “Who’s it with?”

“National Geographic, if you can believe it,” he answered. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Rosie gasped. “No way! Frank, that’s amazing!”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Intimidating is more like it. But I have to try, you know?” He paused, watching Rosie nod with enthusiasm. “Feels like my whole life is getting a lot brighter.”

“Mine too,” she replied, leaning in to give him another kiss.

The following Tuesday, however, Rosie’s world would suddenly be awash with grey, her heart lost to the dim. Frank had called her, early, to tell her he’d been hired, and he’d be leaving that evening to pursue his dream.

“But what does that mean for us?” she asked, pleadingly.

“I’ll write, of course, and call when I can,” he replied. “I don’t want to leave, I need you to know that. But I have to, Rosie. I might not get another chance. And besides, I’ll see you again. I still owe you a date.” His voice cracked, stained with tears.

“But when?” Silence hung on the line like a stolen breath. “Do you promise?” she continued, after the quiet became too much to bear.

“I promise, Rosie. I promise.”

The letters did come, as did photographs from around the world: Asia, Africa, South America, every place as wild and exotic as Frank had fantasized, all captured with his lens. She was flooded with them at first, but after a while the letters became shorter, the photographs smaller. Finally, though, and perhaps inevitably, they stopped altogether.

I never should have left you, Rosie. We both needed to grow, I know that now, but I did my growing too far away from you.

Stopped, that is, until one more arrived in the mail, some thirty years after the last. A letter written on fine linen paper, in careful cursive, and filled with all the hope and love that Rosie had felt so many years ago.

Rosie, lost in a reverie of youthful memories, lifted the letter to breathe in its scent. Her eyes closed as sugared bergamot and deep, red berries filled her senses. Just as she moved to return it to its place of honor on her mantle, a gentle knocking trickled in from the front door. She hurried across the living room to greet her visitor as quickly as her aging body would allow, her hand rising to her lips as she saw Frank for the first time in nearly forty years. Frank, looking just as quietly shy and handsome as ever, leaning on a cane and cradling a picnic basket. The stems of two wineglasses, a single rose, and the neck of a wine bottle peeked out from the basket’s wicker top, the finale to a promise long-kept, the beginning of new promises sweetly made.

I don’t know if this will reach you, or if you are married or if you even still remember me. But, if it’s not too forward, I would dearly love to see you again. Please respond, and tell me if you’d like to see me too. If you do, I’ll come home to you. I will come home to you, Rosie. I will.