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"This is strange." George stopped playing the guitar when he heard what Bob said.
"What?" He looked to his left, searching for Bob's eyes, and he noticed that Dylan seemed to be focused on something else.
"The bird." He pointed to a place, not too far from them. "It's a robin."
"Really?" George started playing the guitar again, and the little bird started to sing. "It doesn't look so much like our robins, you know, back in England. But I don't what is strange about it being here."
"It's almost winter." His voice was almost a whisper. "What is he doing here? I think he should be migrating with the other birds."
"Maybe he got lost." He looked to the robin. "He probably doesn't know where to go anymore.” George said it more to himself than to Bob, but he still looked to his direction.
“Don’t you think this is sad? A bird lost from his group? From other birds who probably are his friends or his family?”
“I… I don’t know.” He looked to Bob. “Maybe he can start a new life.” George stopped playing again. “Even when you are away from home and friends, you must… try to see yourself.”
“I don’t think that a little bird can have this type of self-knowledge.” Bob said, and George laughed. They didn’t see it on the moment, but the robin flew, going to a tree. “You know, there is a superstition… I think it’s from Canada, that whoever sees the first robin of spring will have good luck.”
“Is there any superstition for whoever sees the last robin of autumn?” Bob laughed this time.
“I don’t think there is one. But if there is, you should be the one who would know it.”
“And why? You seem to be so much more interested in robins than I.”
“They are very popular in Britain, aren’t they? I think people did a poll to see which is the ‘unofficial British bird’ and the robins won.”
“But that was not my type of robin. That’s yours.”
Bob didn’t answer that. Instead, he looked away, to where the bird was before.
“Thank you,” he said, in a soft voice. “You know, for coming here, and staying with me.”
“Thank you for letting me stay.” George answered. “Things are getting harder and harder. So I think these days are… very kind to me.” He got up from the ground, and George reached out his hand for Bob to hold it.
It was such a simple action — he was just trying to help Bob from getting up — but it felt so good to hold his hand, even if it was for a small moment.
When Bob got up, they stayed quiet for a moment. George couldn’t say if it was only for a few seconds or if they stayed there for minutes, or if they looked into each others’ eyes for years.
It was a good time, and if it lasted only for five seconds, it wouldn’t be better or worse if it lasted for a thousand years.
All that mattered is that it happened, and he knew it was love.