"In truth my father was a tall man with hollow shoulders that stooped slightly as he walked. Like all of our family he looked younger than his proscribed years but his hair had greyed preternaturally and I can’t recall him ever looking fully rested, even when on holiday. There was an overt gentleness to him that masked a hidden core of strength and practicality. I watched him once wringing the neck of small bird found cat injured on the path leading to our house. He told me to go in whilst he saw to it but I turned and watched instead, saw those pale long fingers caressing the bird gently before the sudden twist and crack and his unflinching eyes that met mine over the small carcass. Sometimes, he said, sometimes you have to make hard decisions. He could never fly again. What life could a bird have when it can no longer ride the thermals, when their wings no longer send them spinning into the sky? And through the tears I understood what he meant."
Through my tears I wonder when the thermals stopped catching me up like they used to. Do birds know, when they get old, what they're about to lose? Or does nature and no forewarning of death protect them?
NB. Don't fret about me. I'll be fine come the morrow. I'm just mourning the passing of time and opportunity. And my fingernails.
GD is currently: drinking more Shiraz than recommended, scared witless but rather thrilled by the spectacular thunder / lightening storm outside her window...facking hell, the sky's gone out....all whilst listening to Nightwish's Nemo...