In this scene, a quiet Christmas moment between Jake and Emma becomes
something more—a gift, a memory, and an unspoken fear of what’s to come.
When Jake
and I step out onto Fifth Avenue, the cold whips through our bulky coats. The
air has that expectant heaviness that feels as if it will snow at any moment.
We hurry home and make hot chocolate. My boxes of cookies are hidden away,
ready for tomorrow.
“I
have something for you,” I say shyly as we sit in the living room, sipping our
hot chocolate. “I don’t want to give it to you at your parents’. Do you want it
now or tomorrow morning?”
Jake
looks up from his mug; he has a chocolate mustache. “Now, please,” he blurts.
I
go into Vee’s room, where I hid Jake’s present, and pull it out from under her
bed. I carry it back to the couch and hand him the wrapped gift, and he grins,
“I love surprises.”
He
tears open the wrapping, revealing the framed collage inside. There is a Snowy
Owl in the center and then in seven smaller pictures around the edge: there is
a yellow-rumped warbler, a palm warbler, a northern cardinal, a white-throated
sparrow, a black-capped chickadee and a dark-eyed junco. The last one is a
lovely wood thrush to commemorate the job he got me.
“These
are the birds we’ve seen when we were together in the park, not the actual
picture as I don’t have a camera, but pictures of the birds plus, of course,
the wood thrush,” I babble. “I know you hate John Foster, but you seem to like
birds, and I thought this could be something for you to remember me by―you
know, for when this whole thing is over.” I wave my hands nervously then clasp
them at my chest, waiting.
Jake
tilts his head and replies, “I love it. You are right. I do like seeing birds
with you.” His expression shifts. “But let’s not talk about this whole thing
being over. That will just make me sad.”
My
heart swells, “Deal.”
We
sit sipping our cocoa and talk about each of the birds. I made myself the exact
same collage, something to brighten my room when I’m back at my parents’, alone
again. I’ll remember each bird sighting. This moment, too. I’m already storing
it away, something to take out and examine when the days grow long.
Continue
the story in When the Forest Dreams
After spending three decades in the insurance
industry, Andrea Ezerins traded risk assessments for plot twists.
Andrea lives in Hebron, Connecticut, with her husband and is the proud mom of
two daughters and identical twin sons. When she’s not writing, she’s raising
bluebirds and monarch butterflies, running, or flowing through yoga—often while
plotting her next book.
