I'm almost me again (She's almost you)

Chapter 10

The swallow is come!

The swallow is come!

O, fair are the seasons, and light

Are the days that she brings,

With her dusky wings,

And her bosom snowy white!

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Hyperion (1839), Book II, Chapter I.

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The following Wednesday, after a particularly quiet any lonely week, Lisa found herself walking across the cobblestoned bridge, her leather roll of tools tucked under her arm, a bag in hand and an eagerness to her step. She'd spent a few days alone, finding the silence deafening after her infrequent run-ins with Jennie, and it had almost been a relief to bump into her yesterday afternoon on her way back from a walk. After days of not talking to anyone, it was enough for Lisa to have been dragged back into her spiral of self-pity and despair. The invitation for dinner this evening had been a welcome one.

Yet as she crossed the bridge, something dark flitted across the blue sky, swooping down through the air and lurching up into the darkness of the trees as it settled down on the branch of a nearby elm. Mouth dry and heart hammering in her chest, Lisa turned away from the cottage and drifted towards the tree set off to the left of the narrow dirt track leading into the hamlet, a stunned look on her face. Lips parted, eyes wide and a look of wonder in her eyes, she moved like she was in a dream, as if she had no control over her own limbs.

Enchanted, she was reeled in, all the way to the dappled shadows the bowed tree branches cast on the muddy path. Looking up, Lisa took in the sight of the tiny bird, head twitching and beady eyes liquid and dark in the shadows at it glanced around everywhere. In the green and brown light beneath the trees, it looked black, but she knew its wings would be deep blue. The snowy crest of its chest was luminescent in the filtered light though, and it was unmistakable. She didn't need her bird watching book to identify this one.

It was a swallow. The first swallow of the season, and the sight of it opened something raw and painful in her chest. Hand trembling, Lisa pressed it to her chest as the air rushed out of her lungs, a weakness rushing through her body as her knees felt like they were going to give out from beneath her. As the bird let out a small chirp, it took to its wings and was gone before Lisa could blink. Reaching out, she all but fell forward as she stumbled towards the rough, moss-covered bark of the tree, her palm bracing her against the sturdy elm as her shoulders hunched and she felt overcome with too many emotions to make sense of.

The bark was rough beneath her fingertips, the moss velvety and damp, and she breathed in the dank, rotting smell of the woods, finding it comforting. It grounded her, the rich smell of soil and foliage strong in the air and reminding her of where she was, what had happened. Her chest hurt, her dry eyes burned with the inability to cry, to form any tears at all, and she felt washed out and faint. Turning, she fell back against the trunk, let her leather satchel spill to the floor and unfurl across the weeds, revealing orderly, shining tools, and the plastic bag thump heavily to the ground before she sank down to meet them.

Sitting on the ground, the damp and cold seeping into the bottom edge of her coat, Lisa stayed there until her hands stopped shaking and her heart stopped pounding, sitting just in sight of the ivy-covered cottage, where she could occasionally see a shadowy figure moving behind the warped old window panes, peeking out from behind the sprouting of green.