The darkest cloud swells and subsides again and again. It has become a welcome speckled sight against these usually still skies. The flock is as punctual as only nature in her timelessness knows how to be, arriving in our patch of grey at around 5.20 every evening. I spend the next few minutes watching a grand and ancient waltz that I imagine must continue to swirl forever over other roofs in other towns long after my curtains have closed and the streetlights flicker on.
If my son is with me at this time, I point the flock out to him and he stands by the window in as much awe as me, asking the same two questions over and over again: "Mummy, what are they doing? Mummy, where are they going?" For those few minutes and beyond I do not know whether or how to answer him, because the lightness of some mysteries are so sacred that I'd rather not weigh them down with a simple search and a simpler answer. Some days I decide to tell him they are dancing, I tell him they are going wherever the wind takes them, and he tells me that sounds fun. I silently agree.
Today we watch the birds swell, subside and swirl. As I watch, I'm listening to an old playlist of sentimental songs I never intend on letting go, singing along heartily and missing all the top notes, swaying with my baby girl, watching my not-so-baby boy run from my side to reimmerse himself into his play, smelling the food my husband is preparing for our dinner, feeling my way ever so slowly through this home, this family, this expanded heart with all of its stretch marks. This rugged life of mine. And this? It is the writing and recording of moments of it all, it is the cherry atop my healing Sunday filled with starlings on grey skies. It is a necessary ritual for my body and blood to feel good in themselves again. Just for today, I feel good inside myself again. I hope that this is more than enough to see me through.
