For decades, the City of River View had no river, just miles of parched soil that a few weeks out of the year would carry a meandering rivulet of water, but only if the rains kept their promise and showed up in winter. More often than not, they would break that promise, like my wife breaking her promise to love me until death do us part.
But River View has undergone a transformation. With climate change, ferocious storms are now coming with pounding frequency, and last year, in the span of a few short months, the once-dry and barren landscape sprouted lush vegetation, and the river has run the whole year round. In fact, it hasn't stopped running, and now the name ‘River View’ no longer seems like a lie, unlike the last year of my marriage.
I started jogging again after my divorce, and the trail I'm running on is next to the river. This new scenery is a welcome change. It makes me think better days are right around the corner for me. But I'm still not ready to jump into a new relationship.
My friend Deborah, a Social Worker who fancies herself a psychologist, tells me I have to shake off my post-divorce depression—which is fairly common, she says. I have to stop being so pathetic and jump back in and start dating. She likes giving me advice like that—harsh but honest.
Two miles into my twelve-mile run, I crest a rise and almost come to a dead stop. Up ahead, perched on one of the weathered posts of the wooden fence separating me from the river below, is a large bird I've never seen before. The thing is enormous. Its feathers are a bright white, as white as the lie I tell my young son when I say that mommy loves him very much even though she doesn't live with us anymore. I normally see crows—black as my ex-wife's heart—perched atop the fence.
As I get closer, that stunning creature remains aloof, pretending to ignore me but eyeing me sideways with suspicion. And when I get too close, it springs up on its spindly legs and launches smoothly and effortlessly into flight. Its neck folds into a distinctive ‘s’ shape, and its wings extend fully. Its long, orange beak points forward, and its even longer, thin, black legs trail behind, straight as arrows.
It's a heron, and it floats gracefully on those huge sail-like wings to land at the river's edge. It sets its large, splayed feet into the muddy bank below and—as if for my sole benefit—strikes a majestic pose. I'm moved by the moment, but I also feel a twinge of sadness that I can't explain.
I told Deborah I was fine being alone, that I wasn't depressed. Sure, those first few months when I gorged on pizza and beer and binge-watched Suits, Mad Men, Mr. Robot, and Game of Thrones late at night—alone in bed—I was depressed. But I've moved past that. ‘Really I have,’ I told her. ‘I like being a single, unattached dad.’ She rolled her eyes and shook her head sadly. I was in classic denial, she sighed.
As I crest another rise, I see a runner up ahead. Her ponytail is a metronome of movement, whipping side to side underneath a bright blue running cap. She's wearing a white sports bra and blue running shorts, which draw my attention. They're tight and short—very short—a 2-inch inseam, if that. Her cheeks are an upside-down bright blue heart.
I can tell she's an experienced runner because her arms move smoothly from front to back, like she's working ski poles. She has good form.
I can't help but smile when she tugs down at the back of her shorts.
She's a regular on this trail, running almost as often as I do. When I catch up to her, I swing wide to her left and pick up my pace. I always do that when I pass a runner—swing wide and speed up. It would be too awkward—creepy even—to pass someone slowly.
As I pull ahead, she says something about ‘Karen,’ so I slow down and turn my head to look at her. She has a pleasant, friendly face—in sharp contrast to my ex's.
‘I'm sorry. What?’
‘I said, “Did you see the heron?”’
‘Oh! The heron. Yes. I did.’
‘I've lived here all my life, and I've never seen a heron before. It was such a thrill. The bird was just so . . . .’ She struggles to find the right word.
‘Majestic?’ I offer.
‘Yes. That's the word—majestic. My name's Sandra, by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you Sandra. Dris.’
‘Dris?’
‘It's short for Driscoll.’
‘Dris . . . .’ She considers a moment, then smiles and nods. ‘I like it.’
We continue running at the same pace, but I'm unsure if there will be more words exchanged between us, so before the silence turns heavy and smothers the moment, I say, ‘Well it was nice meeting you,’ but I'm only able to get out the word ‘well’ before she breathes new life back into the conversation.
‘I see you running this trail quite a bit. How far are you running today? I'm only doing four miles myself.’
I'm about to say, ‘twelve,’ but then hesitate when I think of the heron. I now know why it had struck me as sad. That creature looked so lonely standing out there in the open. Herons, like the vast majority of birds, don't mate for life. They move from one partner to another every breeding season, and when that season is over, their brief union ends, and each parent goes its separate way. For most of its life, that majestic creature will live a solitary existence.
I steal a sideways glance at Sandra as I consider my own solitary existence, which will be a lonely one if I continue straight on my current path. But if I round the corner . . . . Could there be better days ahead? My heart pounds a little faster as the word ‘four’ begins to form on my lips.
About the author
Héctor Hernández received a bachelor’s degree in civil engineering. He lives in California and is now retired. His short stories have appeared in various publications, including Flash Fiction Magazine, After Dinner Conversation and Literally Stories.
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