Lately, the robins have made a home on our front porch. We’ve watched two sets of babies arrive—first as speckled eggs tucked into nests of twigs and string, then as tiny beaks reaching toward the sky. We’ve watched them grow, flutter, and finally—astonishingly—fly.

And with each leaving, something opens in me. Something soft and aching. Something familiar.

It’s Kristen.

Scrappy, as we called her on the rugby field. My Colorado friend in college, while we were both so far from home in Brunswick, Maine. She wasn’t just my teammate. She was my study partner, my co-conspirator, my person. We had most of our classes together. We crammed for Orgo—organic chemistry, the mountain of all mountains—and made a deal: if we survived the final, we’d go out for lunch to celebrate.

We studied with pizza. We danced our way through stress. We skied. We laughed until our stomachs hurt. She had this chicken-scratch handwriting that looked like chaos until you knew her—then it was perfect.

And then there was that day.

We’d made it. The Orgo final was over. I finished early—she was always the one to double-check everything. I wandered out into the commons and found some friends gathered there. Someone offered me a seat on their lap, a slice of pizza, and I was so hungry. I took a bite, relieved and proud and tired.

Just then, Kristen walked in. And she saw me there—laughing, eating, not where I said I’d be. Not waiting for us.

She looked so hurt. She walked right out. And we never had that lunch.

That moment has haunted me. Still does.

I let her down. Not intentionally—but still. And Kristen? She called me on it. She didn’t sweep it away or sugarcoat it. She named it. And then, with that fierce heart of hers—she stayed. She loved me anyway. She kept showing up.

That kind of friendship? It’s rare. It’s real. And it lives in me now in ways I’m only beginning to understand.

Annie Dillard once wrote about “the unwrapped gifts and free surprises” that scatter the world. Kristen and I discovered Pilgrim at Tinker Creek during one of our more sleep-deprived semesters. We were behind on the reading (again) and found it on cassette tape. We listened on our way to a rugby match, her voice beside me, Dillard’s voice in our ears, the road stretching out ahead. That memory lives deep.

Now, when I hear birdsong or pass by that book, I think of her. When I find an old photo—like I did this morning—and memories flood in, I ache. I smile. I miss her with everything I have.

Grief is like that. It flies in sideways. Uninvited. It sits with you at the table when you’re flipping through albums or folding laundry or noticing the empty porch where the robins once were.

But sometimes, it brings gifts.

Like a robin fluffing its feathers. Like a friend’s laugh bubbling up inside your own. Like the voice in your memory saying, “Hey. You forgot me.” And still showing up anyway.

That’s Kristen.

And maybe that’s the nature of real love—it changes form, but never disappears. It flutters in through open windows. It lands on flowerbeds. It lives on in the birds.

Do you have a “bird” like that?
A person who still shows up in the quietest ways? A story that stings and still somehow saves you?

I’d love to hear. Share your memories in the comments—about the ones who visit, the moments that surprised you, the miracles that remind you love never really leaves.

And if you’re holding grief today, I’m holding it right alongside you.