John Robin
John Robin the Sparrow waited in the canopy of the Ave Sound, clutching onto his wedding ring in vain as he waited for his wife, Celine.
If you notice, my fingers are covered with wedding bands, gold, silver, titanium, even green, I collect them as patrons pass over, because you no longer need material things, your souls are the tether to the ones you love.
John Robin the Man didn’t believe me. He spat at me on his deathbed when I tried to slip it onto my hand.
I had never had this encounter before, so, I struck up a promise with him, he could keep the ring until Celine returned to him, no matter who or where he was, and if I was wrong and she didn’t reunite with him, he could keep the ring, and hold it over my head forever.
So I turned him and his generous soul into a sparrow, sparrows don’t spit, and I placed his winged self into my aviary, the Ave Sound, tucked away from human eyes or ears.
So, John Robin the Sparrow waited in the canopy of lush trees, looking out at the woods that bordered the river of which made the sound. He didn’t move, didn’t fly, didn’t sing, or spit, he just sat rooted to his sad branch and looked out with his black eyes for any sign of Celine, a shift of a branch, a sample of her laugh, but his world was only birdsong and feathers.
Crows cawed, hawks cried, blue jays screeched, mocking birds - well, mocked. No one knew his meter of voice, of conversation, of debate, so he waited, for years, silent in the sound.
One day, he finally sighed, ruffling his russet feathers. He looked down at his ring, which hung around a talon.
“She’ll never come,” he said, voice rusted from his quiet.
He tucked his thatched head into his chest and cried, wetting his downy chest.
“Celine,” John Robin whispered.
Crows cackled, their shadows crossing over him as they bounded after each other through the crown of trees. John Robin shifted on his perch. The ring teetered down to the edge of his talon. The river below glittered, as if salivating at the offering.
John Robin looked around, a couple of morning doves meditated above him, their dawn darned bodies eclipsing each other to make the shape of a heart.
“Celine,” John Robin chirped.
John Robin looked to the river.
“Death just wanted to keep torturing myself. She knew Celine wouldn’t find me-,” he said. The river frothed below. The ring hung high above. John Robin let go. The ring flashed in the light as it spun to its demise, silencing the flock with its beauty, before being swallowed by the churn of current.
"Keep it,” John Robin hissed.
“John Augustin Robin,” a voice rose.
John Robin froze. His heart fluttered, his body buzzing from that voice, a memory.
“Look at me, John,” the voice said, a giggle rounded her words, like wings and air. Slowly, John Robin turned, little by little, to see a bird studying him, it’s eyes, it’s laugh, striking a cord in his soul, a sense of revelation filling his mind.
“Celine?”
She opened her sleek wings, letting the light etch her new body. Her wings were white edged with black, as if burnt from flying too close to the sun. She was a tern, a species not yet known to the English, but a favorite of mine, world travelers this breed, perfect for say a wife on a journey to find her husband in the afterlife.
“You recognize me all of this?”
She giggled as her husband gawked at her.
“Oh, John,” she cooed, she fluttered to stand before him, “I have been looking for you everywhere.”
John whispered, “Everywhere?”
Celine nodded. “Everywhere,” she said.
Tears beaded his eyes. He shook his head.
“When did you die?”
Celine paused. She looked up at the intersecting branches, electric with birds bounding this way and that. John thought of Celine, old when he had left her, putting herself to bed, tucking the sheets around her to stay warm, muttering her prayers, shifting on the mattress to get her arthritic bones comfortable, and slipping away into silence.
“Three years ago,” she said, as if to herself, as if she had forgotten. She nodded at the amount, “Almost to the day.”
“You never stopped looking for me, in all that time?” John Robin said.
Celine shook her head, “If there was anything I missed, I would go over it again just to see if you were there,” she whispered, “No shadow, no stone, no sound was safe from me.”
John Robin stiffened. He imagined the wedding ring glaring at him from the depths of the river.
Celine bristled, squinting her eyes at John Robin, saying, “You spat at Death?”
John Robin look at his feet.
“It was not a good moment for me,” he muttered.
John Robin rocked on his toes. He shrugged his wings. He thought of the ring, deep in the ether now.
“Why are you so tense, John?”
“The ring,” he whispered.
Celine blinked at him. The morning doves cackled as they erupted from their roost, fluttering up to the peak of a nearby pine. Celine’s stare brought John Robin back to focus on her. She padded close to him, her eyes never wavering with their seriousness. John Robin thought about flying. He tensed, pinning the urge down with his wings against his rib cage as she got closer and closer, until she gripped her talon with his.
“John, why do we need a ring?”
John sighed, “Because, I made a vow to you -,”
“You still have me, John, forever and on,” she chirped.
John Robin sighed, “Forever and on.”
Celine chuckled at him, letting go of their embrace and nodding to the expanse of forest that stood before them.
“Come on, Heaven still accepts silly men,” she chirped before diving from hopping to the edge of the branch and springing into the air, opening her wings at the end of a smooth twist, scaling the thermals up to the ceiling of clouds.
John Robin staggered to the steeple of a branch, watching as Celine rose higher and higher.
He sang out, “Celine!”
She cackled back, “You better keep up!”
John Robin crouched on the branch, he peeled his wings open, he pushed the air under his chest.
Celine flew on, about to soar past the marbled face of a cumulus cloud, her feathers burning bright in the growing light.
“Celine,” he whispered, rousing up another gust of wind around him, he rose up a few inches before clamoring onto the bark, spraying residue to the river.
He swallowed, bracing at the idea of flight before finally pushing off and sailing up to his wife, crowing, “Celine!”
She cackled, pushing faster as her husband closed in on her, meeting each other in front of St. Peter, entering Heaven with John Robin holding the door open for Celine.
While I, Death, sifted through the river bottom, and added the wedding band of Robin John to my collection, ending our time together amicably, I assume.