The snow tapered off as we arrived at The Pineapple Inn, a bed and breakfast nestled in the woods at the base of the Pocono Mountains. Only a few inches of snow had fallen, just enough to outline the barren tree limbs and cover the ground with a thin blanket of white. Although we stayed at different places, my fiancé Katie and I visited the area every December to spend a long, romantic weekend together. We always returned home refreshed after spending a few days unplugged from the world.

The Victorian home was larger than anticipated with mother in law quarters on one side that served as the living space for the owner. An octagon shaped sitting room was a prominent feature of the house, along with a wrap around porch that curved along the contour of the building. Had the temperature been warmer, it would have been a nice area to enjoy the peaceful solitude that surrounded the home.

A small bell attached to the handle of the front door jingled as Katie and I entered. Waves of a cinnamon spice scent welcomed us. Stanley Thatcher, a sixty something retiree, was in the back of the house setting up place settings for dinner service. He called out to us when we arrived and appeared a few minutes later.

“Get ‘em while they’re hot,” he said with an outstretched plate of warm cookies. “Fresh out of the oven.”

The hardwood floors creaked under our footsteps as Stanley guided us around the home, pointing to the amenities. Scenic photographs of local importance filled the walls of each room and along the staircase leading to the bedrooms.

Originally used as a living room, the space had been converted to a dining area. Windows stretched from the floor to the ceiling. They offered a better view of the yard, one unadulterated by vehicular traffic. A large fireplace made of quarried stone was built into the wall on the far end of the room. The wood crackled under the heat of the flames which added to the warmth of the home.

Of the three bedrooms available, ours was the only one with a private balcony. There was a community bathroom one step across the hall. It had been awhile since Katie and I enjoyed private time together, so we planned on spending more time in bed and less at breakfast. With only a shared bathroom available, I hoped that meant we could shower together without causing much of a fuss.

When we stepped into our room, I asked, “Why is this called The Pineapple Inn?”

The fruit isn’t native to northeastern Pennsylvania and I hoped for an interesting story.

Quick to explain, Stanley replied, “Pineapples are a warrior with a heart of gold.”

There was a matter of fact tone in his voice which suggested he had been asked that question many times in the past. After he turned to exit our room, I looked at Katie with squinted eyes. She did the same in return.

“What does that even mean?” she whispered.

I shrugged my shoulders and rolled my eyes, confused by his explanation. Before closing the door behind him, Stanley looked around the hallway to ensure no one was within earshot. He turned to face us, one hand cupped around his mouth.

“My wife loves pineapples, that’s why,” he whispered before returning to the first floor.

Katie and I spent the rest of the evening curled up in one another’s arms. We talked about our hopes and dreams for a future we couldn’t wait to experience. Our wedding was only a few months away and the large house we lived in would one day be filled with children. Lots of them, I hoped. We fell asleep locked in an embrace that no one would ever come between.

In the middle of the night, I awoke, needing to make a trip to the bathroom. Stumbling out of bed half awake, I almost walked into the hallway naked. For a moment, with my hand on the doorknob, I considered making a quick dash to the bathroom. It was only a few steps away. I opened the door slow, just enough to peek through. The squeak of its aged hinge sliced through the quiet. It startled me enough to realize this was a bad idea. I sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed at my eyes to get my bearings. After pulling my sweatpants on, Katie ran her fingers along the small of my back.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered, her eyes still closed.

“Never,” I replied with a kiss upon her forehead. “I’m just going potty.”

As I approached the bathroom, the muffled sounds of a mother’s voice could be heard singing to her restless child. Relieved to have opted for clothing, I paused to eavesdrop.

“Hush, little baby, don't say a word. Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird won't sing, Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring…”

Even though the singing was muted after closing the bathroom door, a happy thought remained. Someday, that would be Katie’s voice, or maybe even my own. I repeated the lyrics in my head a few times. At one point, while still in the bathroom, I thought to have heard the neighboring songstress but dismissed the idea. She was two rooms away.

A few hours later, I awoke to an empty bed. A quick scan of the room found one of the French doors leading to the balcony ajar. Wearing sweatpants but nothing more, I stepped outside and wrapped my arms around Katie from behind, pulling her close while kissing the side of her neck. She moaned with delight. The voyeuristic sun struggled to peek through the overcast skies. My bare feet ignored the accumulation of snow, overpowered by the warmth inside my heart.

“Don’t you start up again,” she warned. “We have to eat at some point.”

“You go ahead down. I’m right behind you.”

When she returned to the room, I stretched and looked around. Almost invisible amidst the backdrop of snow, a woman wearing a white parka stood in the backyard with a bundled up baby cradled in her arms. Her lips were moving though she was too far away to hear what was said. She comforted the child by rocking him in her arms.

Mesmerized by the sight, I found myself humming The Mockingbird Song, as if willing the infant asleep from afar. It wasn’t my intention to stare at them but got caught doing so nonetheless. I offered a nervous wave in their direction before retreating to the bedroom. When I joined Katie in the dining room, the song continued to repeat in my head. Without realizing it, I began to sing the lyrics aloud.

Standing beside me, Stanley paused before placing a filled breakfast plate on the table in front of me. He tilted his head and stared with a vague curiosity, as if singing about a mockingbird was odder than preaching about a pineapple’s warrior spirit.

I apologized for being distracted and explained, “Got a song stuck in my head.”

“It happens,” he replied before leaving us to enjoy the meal.

Throughout the day, every trip to the bathroom was accompanied by the same sweet melody sang from the confines of a neighboring bedroom. Her voice was soft but audible enough to hear each word enunciated. It never crackled under the strain of exhaustion or boredom. At one point, I thought about knocking on her door, to offer whatever assistance Katie and I could, but figured our neighbor deserved as much privacy as we did.

The following day, I woke up much earlier than expected. It was 4:00 am. Checkout wasn’t for a few hours but I found myself unable to sleep. As in past years, I wished the weekend would last forever and decided to suggest taking these trips every six months while we could. After our lives were blessed with children, it would prove more difficult to carve out private weekends away. It was a conversation for the ride home.

I headed to the bathroom to wash up and shave the stubble from my face. With a woman across the hall and another in my bed, their respective morning routines might clash, or in the very least be hectic. Best to finish what I needed to do in order to remove myself from the equation. When I stepped into the hall, the same song continued, though louder than previous instances. From within the bathroom, I could hear the song as clear as if the woman was standing beside me.

“Hush, little baby, don't say a word. Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird…”

I hummed in unison to her voice, a private duet for an invisible audience. When I exited the bathroom, the woman stood loitering in the hall. She continued to sing even though the baby wasn’t in her arms. Startled by my sudden appearance, she stopped and looked at me.

“Finally get the little one to sleep?” I asked.

“Yes, but he loves that song and I can’t get it out of my head.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve been humming it all weekend.”

“Do you two have kids?” she asked, nodding towards our room.

“Not yet, but someday. Hopefully, someday soon.”

“Cherish them every chance you get.”

I wished her goodnight and returned to my room. Even though there was no chance of getting back to sleep, I laid beside Katie, pulling her close enough to whisper in her ear.

“I love you.”

Sweet sentiments of affection don’t always require acknowledgement. She knew I loved her and I knew the same of her. It didn’t matter if she’d never remember what was said to her while she slept. In response to my adulation, she mumbled something incoherent. It sounded like she said “muffin man”. I wasn’t sure if she was hungry or having an affair with a baker. Either way, it would be another conversation during the ride home.

While checking out, I continued to hum The Mockingbird Song aloud. Stanley again looked at me with a puzzled curiosity, wanting to say something but hesitant.

“The woman in the room next to ours,” I explained. “She kept singing that song and now it’s stuck in my head.”

“What woman?” asked Stanley. “You two were the only ones here this weekend.”

“The woman and her baby.” I looked towards Katie and pleaded with her. “The one that was in the yard when we were on the balcony.”

“There was nobody out there,” she replied.

“Sure there was. She was wearing a white coat so it was hard to see her but she was there.”

“What exactly did she look like?” Stanley asked, his curiosity piqued.

While I described the woman and relayed the conversation from earlier that morning, Stanley’s face turned pale with fright. He grabbed for the wall and guided himself to the entrance of his apartment. After taking a few steps inside, his knees buckled. He fell hard onto a nearby chair. Without saying a word, he pointed to the wall where a collage of photos were displayed. Among them hung a framed snapshot that included generations of his family. Photographed in the rear yard, The Pineapple Inn filled the background. I pointed to a woman, dressed in a white parka, who stood cradling a baby in her arms.

Overtaken by emotion, tears rolled down Stanley’s cheeks as he explained, in a hoarse voice, “It can’t be. My wife she…she passed away last year. After…after our only grandson died suddenly. She used to sing that song to him all the time.”

Katie knelt beside him and rubbed his back as an offering of comfort. I fetched a glass of water from the bathroom and placed it on the table beside him. Uncertain what to say, I sung The Mockingbird Song aloud, hoping it settled any heaviness that remained in the hearts of those in the room.