Sometimes it is still light when I go to bed. The other night the birds were singing. It was beautiful. I opened my window and the air, fresh and cool, entered the room bringing with it the sound of song. I don’t know enough of ornithology to distinguish whose call is whose. I can pick out blackbirds and I know there are rooks, magpies but there may also be chiff-chaffs and certainly blue tits. It wasn’t a cacophony, not like the dawn chorus can be, all of them vying for attention. No, that night it was gentle, a subtle calling from tree to tree. I fell into sleep to their sounds. Lulled. A babe in arms. Emptied of thought, of care.
She answered the phone. I am glad. It’s been two weeks. Her voice was strong. She trusts me, is glad of the call, I think. We talk of church, of her daughter’s job. She didn’t go to church at Easter. It’s too cold for me, she says. They’ve no heating. I’ll get a chill. I miss it. I ask about her garden. Oh, there’s nothing in yet, we’ve had too much frost. For some reason we get onto travelling. Oh, no, she says, I’ve never been abroad. My father, you see, had depression. So much goes unsaid. She is not an articulate woman. But her inner life, well who can say? Who can say?
Rain then sun. Such is April.
I am writing it for myself, I think. Is it reason enough?
