Then Comes Spring
by Alex Mintz (‘24)

Nightingale loathed springtime. Rain would pour heavily while flowers bloomed faster, sun shining down warmth on his town. The town he also loathed as much as springtime.

When looking up, he could see the blue fade down the puddle-covered street and sink into an orange hue. To the average eye, it would be beautiful, but to Nightingale, it was an annual curse reminding him of what happened that Spring two years ago.

Nightingale was a loner, a highschooler who never talked to anyone. Now he goes after school to the drug store to pick up his doses of prozac and antidepressants, an everyday occurrence.

Seeing the power lines that stood tall with wires hanging down low, he could only think of Mike. They used to throw rocks from slingshots at the wires, seeing the small sparks it made when tossing them. Nightingale could still remember the sound of Mike’s laughter with small zaps of electricity.

Nightingale took out a cigarette from his black hoodie’s pocket and lit it.

He finally made his way to the forest at the end of the sidewalk, a crossway where the street formed into the forest beside car lanes. He took a breath before walking into the small patch of trees, covering shadows over him, more so than the clouds.

He found a small withered flower that sprouted out from a patch of dirt, surrounded by no other flowers and only grass. Nightingale sat down next to the flower, the poorly made grave that he made for him. Mike was an orphan who lived with his grandparents. He was a quiet kid at school, like Nightingale. The two bonded, all before spring came.

In April about two years ago, Mike was found dead on the sidewalk for an unexplained crime. His body was torn and mangled with no sign of who or what happened. The police suspect an animal had done it, judging by the gruesome remains.

Nightingale sighed, still grieving. It took him very long to come to terms that his only friend, maybe even lover, was found dead with no explanation. 

“Smoke?” he asked the withered flower, holding out the cigarette between his fingers, offering it to the grave.