We Were Birds

The hardest part of death, Quinn thinks, is those moments when you forget who you are.

They are fleeting, but they are there. They are why Quinn has met some people who have been in death so long that they have forgotten their previous life entirely. Maybe they wanted to forget anyway, and maybe they didn't care about remembering, but even so, they have absolutely no recollection of who they once were. Quinn cannot let that happen to him. His life is his death. If he forgets who he was, he will forget the reason for being here. So when he realizes he is forgetting, he closes himself and makes himself remember.

He remembers Fern's face. Every single detail of it. From what she looked like the day they graduated to what she looked like the moment before he died. She did, indeed, look different. It was one of the worst kind of differences, though. Even when they were broke she still looked free and easy. But as soon as she came back and saw that he was sick, as soon as she dragged him into the hospital those final weeks, her face changed. She developed a line between her brow, around her mouth. Worry lines, not laugh lines. She hardly laughed in the hospital and even when she did it was a forced laugh.

It is before dawn and Quinn lays in tall, dewy grass, looking at the sky. There are stars, so wherever this place is, or whatever it is...well, Quinn doesn't know. He just watches the stars. Some really do twinkle. Some are the sort of stars that he can only see when he is looking at them through his periphery. And then some shine so brightly, Quinn wonders if they're planets. Is he still on Earth? If so, where? Or maybe it is that he isn't really even supposed to know. Maybe, it is, like Fern used to say, that he is just supposed to be.

Quinn never really understood that concept, but know he understands it. Every so often he'll question what he's doing here - it comes with the moments of forgetting - but most of the time he doesn't question and just is. So he stops. Takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of the night right before the morning. It is dark, very dark. But there is the hint of morning all around him. At the edge of the horizon there is gray. And the moon is high in the sky. And if he listens carefully, very carefully, he can hear a bird. Far off, it calls to him, a sweet sound of morning. You should be asleep, he thinks to himself. Turning his head, Quinn realizes he is totally hidden within the grass.

He could not exist and nobody would even know. That is, of course, if he even exists now. Oh no, not more thinking. Quinn closes his eyes, thinks of Fern. Beautiful.

On the breeze, he swears he smells Fern's perfume. She is out there somewhere. But she will be sleeping. Somewhere, she will be sleeping, she will not be wandering around at night. Quinn knows this. There is nothing to do right now except think of her. Dream of her. And slowly, slowly, he falls deep into the sleep of death.

He wakes up only a few hours later, for now the gray is across the sky. It is long before sunrise, but the birds are wide awake. They are speaking in a language that Fern always said she wanted to understand. Strange enough, Quinn cared little about birds. He liked them well enough, sure, but he didn't find the elegant beauty in them that Fern did. He just loved that Fern loved them. He loved the thoughtful look that came across her face every time she heard them.

So he tries to conjure up that feeling now. The feeling of wonder hearing them speak through song. And for the first time, he understands. They sing. A song is a joyful language. It speaks of happiness and love and laughter. Do you love me? the birds sing. Yes, yes, yes, they answer. They call to each other, Come! Come! they say. Look at me, I am beautiful! Birds do not understand sadness. They do not understand grief. They do not understand loss. They do not understand death.

Fern did not want to understand those emotions either. She did not want to understand sadness, grief, loss, death. But she did understand them. She was not a bird, but she wished to be so happy. She wished to be so free. And for the first time in his life, so does Quinn.

"I understand, Fern," he whispers in the grass. The dew makes his hair wet and it chills his body in a refreshing way. He buries his face into the grass and lets the thin fingers casually brush over his face in a way that reminds him of his mother.

She'd died when he was only six years old. Pa was never the same, but over the years, Quinn's forgotten most things about his mother. Life is more like death than Quinn could ever have imagined. Except back then, it was okay to forget Mother's face. Because she left so early on and then it was just Pa and Quinn and that was okay. But Quinn remembers sometimes finding his father looking off into space. And now Quinn understands that he was thinking of Mother.

Quinn sits up and exhales deeply. His breath condenses and becomes white. It is not very cold, just early. He is sitting in a field that is near a road and behind him are a cluster of trees. That must be where all the birds are. The field is blanketed by the early morning fog and Quinn stands in its midst. He looks out, above the fog, across the field. He is utterly alone here. There are not even any train tracks around here. People do not usually walk here, but Quinn wasn't sure where to start looking, and so he started running and this is where he ended up.

His concept of beauty was always limited. Fern was beautiful. His car was beautiful. Pa was beautiful. Mother always had beautiful hands, he remembered that. And he did find the beauty in things, he just could not say them the way Fern could. His heart felt lightened when he'd seen the sunrise of the Grand Canyon - with all its colors and swirls and the vast open space that it was. And there was something haunting about the yellow sun coming across the cityscape. And the Eiffel tower at night when it was all lit up. They were beautiful, but he'd never been able to say so.

This is something like one of those times.

Quinn has never been more alone but he does not feel it. Fern could be here with him. "It's so beautiful here, isn't it Quinn? So peaceful? I feel like we're the only two people on the Earth right now. It makes me feel dizzy and heartbroken. I feel it in my chest, a pain. A beautiful kind of pain that just makes me want to cry..."

"I feel it too," Quinn says, louder than the last time he talked aloud, to Fern, who isn't even there. But no one is.

One step to the road. And another. And then he is at the road and Quinn looks back to the field. This too, shall pass, he thinks. It was his favorite saying, because it made sense in any situation. Every bad situation, it would go away some day. So would any good situation. It had been true in life and it is true in death. There will never be another moment like this. He might feel the same way, but not because of the same thing.

But he will not regret it. He turns away and puts his hands in his pocket. He does not look at the field as he walks down the road. Behind him, the pink of sunrise comes up but Quinn does not watch it. He watches the road ahead, blue-grey in the moments before the morning. He listens not only to the birds, but to the crickets and the cicadas. They join in on the birds' symphony.

By daybreak, he has reached a small town and more train tracks. Fern could be here, he thinks with some hope. Already the chimneys of the town smoke with the promise of the day. He wonders how many of the people have been in death for too long. He wonders how many have forgotten and how many cling to their memories. He meanders through the town for awhile but does not smell Fern's perfume. He doesn't feel her presence. And for some reason, he simply knows she isn't here.

Quinn continues onwards. Alone. Through the small town. At the edge of it, he turns and looks back. I hope that none of you forget who you are, he thinks solemnly. He will not speak it aloud, for he is afraid he might be heard. Instead he turns toward the platform. He will get on a train. And then he will find somewhere else to go. He doesn't really know. He will, as stupid as he knows this sounds, have to follow his heart. Or at least the way he feels.

The platform is empty as Quinn arrives. He has long since drifted away from the sea, because he can no longer smell it on the air. All he smells now, is the smell of earth in the morning. A wet, warm, rich sort of smell. The sort of smell that reminds Quinn of summer rain or the way Fern's skin smelled when it was wet out. Quinn smiles an unknowing smile as a train pulls into the station. Quinn gets off while a couple others get off. Quinn nods to them - a sort of salute, a sort of hymn - and then continues onto the train alone.

This compartment is bare except for an old woman knitting calmly in a seat facing sideways. Quinn sits next to her quietly, suddenly anxious for human contact. Looking up, he sees that he was mistaken before. There is one more person here. A young woman. About his age. Beautiful in a sad sort of way. She looks at Quinn and smiles. The light in her eyes has completely gone out and it embarrasses Quinn in a way that he can't understand.

"You look like you could use some answers," says the woman knitting.

Quinn looks over to her. "Excuse me?" he asks.

The woman sets down her work and looks at the young man with a smile. "I said that you look like you could use some answers. You seem a little lost. How long have you been here?" she asks. Quinn grins for a moment, drops his head and then looks at the old woman.

"Two years," he says quietly.

"Not too long." She goes back to knitting for a moment. "I'm waiting for my sister. I will not go on without her." Quinn wonders why she says this but disregards her words and looks out the window behind him. They pass by tree after tree after tree. Quinn turns his head then and looks at the sad woman who is looking out her own window. "They say there is someone who will tell you anything you need to know. If you need answers, she will tell you them," says the woman suddenly.

Quinn looks down at the old woman. "Then why haven't you been to her?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Maybe I have."

"And you think I should go see this woman?" asks Quinn. The woman nods a little bit. "Because she can tell me what I need to know?" The woman nods again. "Fine then. Where is this woman?"

The old lady once again looks up from her knitting, and Quinn notices that each time she looks up, she looks as if he has disturbed her, as if it was he who started talking to her. But maybe Quinn initiated the conversation when he sat down next to her. There were many different places to sit, but he'd wanted to be next to someone just then. He'd wanted to feel that he really was here, that he really wouldn't forget everything. That he really wasn't going to just disappear and float off. It was a ridiculous notion, but Quinn had felt it. "She lives in the thrush. Stop at the stop where you can see the swamp and the Weeping Willows. I'll show you when. Then just start walking, you'll get there eventually."

They are quiet for a very long time. The sad girl does not get off at any stop and Quinn has the terrible notion that she is going off to the Final Stop. No, no you cannot go off looking that sad. You simply can't. The Final Stop is scary, that's true, but you don't need to be sad. You should go when you feel that you are ready, not when you feel you must, thinks Quinn passionetly. And finally the woman nudges Quinn. They are entering a darker part of death. This must be where the woman with the answers lives.

Quinn stands up and goes to the sad girl. "Come with me. You need some answers."

"I need to go," the girl says, with resignment thick in her voice.

Quinn shakes his head and holds out his hand. The girl looks at him with her sad, empty eyes. Did Fern look this way when he died? The question is sudden but sharp. It sends a wave of nausea through Quinn. "Come on," Quinn says. "You can't go on with questions and with wondering. You have to go knowing and understanding. That is the point of death. Anything you didn't understand before, you learn now. You can't go on not knowing. Come with me." That is really all it takes. The sad girl takes his hand and as soon as the train stops, they leave together, hand in hand.

"I'm Vivian," says the sad girl.

"Quinn," answers he.

They drop hands and start walking. The Weeping Willows sweep majestically over a crystalline lake. They are as old as death itself and have been there since the beginning of time. Each tree is in itself a miracle, Quinn realizes. He looks at Vivian, who does not look at the tree.

Quinn has been sad since he died. Since the first day he found he was no longer with Fern. And he has been sad everyday, waiting for her. But here is the difference between the sadness of Vivian and the sadness of himself. While Vivian looks ahead, she only continues forward, she never stops to look around, never stops to look back, never stops to feel that heartbreakingly beautiful feeling that Quinn felt this morning with the fog. It is good to look to the future, but when you forget the past? When you wish to cover yourself with the blanket of blind forgetting? This is the difference between his sadness and her sadness. There is emptiness there.

Within Quinn, as there has always been, there is hope.