Nest

19 September 2021

A year ago, give or take a week or so, I was cutting back some Hawthorne in the back garden. A little earlier than I perhaps should have done, but the leaves were starting to curl over brown on their edges, and the days were certainly getting cooler. Deeply entwined amongst the criss-cross of branches, I came across a bird’s nest. It’s spring and summer residents had obviously vacated it by then, but evidence of their presence was still there to be seen. The clumsy looking, but skillfully crafted, bowl of twigs and grass could fit comfortably in my hand, and it was easy to make out the moss, finer twigs, feathers and spiders webs that provided the warmth and comfort needed to keep eggs warm and hatched chicks safe.

Scattered haphazardly on top of this were small, pale, downy feathers and bird poop. Signs of rapidly growing youngsters, plucking and preening themselves and frantically exercising their developing wings in readiness to fledge. Then there was the indentation itself, I looked at it and imagined how much care the parents had gone to to prepare a shelter for the young they didn’t yet have. They clearly wanted to give their offspring the very best start in life. A fighting chance of survival in a world beset with threat, risk and danger.

Lisa and I have returned home this evening having dropped Stanley off at University for the first time. Our three and a half hour car journey was spent mostly in silence. We reassured each other with the occasional touch of the hand or rub of the arm, but most of the time we were deep in our own thoughts. I would hear her sniff and I would follow suit, but neither of us had colds. I couldn’t believe quite how sad I was; I had expected to be the more stoic one. But the weekend we spent up there made me emotionally aware of what parenthood truly felt like. When Adora was a toddler she had a minor operation after tripping and falling, and was given general anaesthetic; that was probably the last time I was aware of what it was like to be a Dad. Other than that, it would have been the days of their births.

It felt wrong to be leaving him alone, somewhere that wasn’t his home. The roads came and went, junction after junction, putting more distance and complication between us, and the day gradually faded into evening and then to night. We arrived back in Ardleigh with two large empty cases and an otherwise empty boot. Just the day before it was crammed full with his clothes, bedding and general possessions and teenage paraphernalia. Occasionally, whilst driving, I would look in my mirrors and see the late afternoon sunshine or early evening butterscotch sky where we had been, and he now remained. Through the windscreen ahead of us was a slate grey sky with a short, superimposed shard of a rainbow and lots of rain.

For a bizarre few miles a number of Magpies streaked across a stretch of motorway and the A1. I lost count as to how many I saw and tried to work my way through the whole rhyme, hoping to stumble upon a positive. But today, they were all just one solitary magpie after another; sorrow repeating itself again and again.

As I dragged the hollow cases out of the rain and in to the porch, I was aware how the front door now opened more fully. There were noticeably fewer shoes blocking it. I haven’t been to his room yet but I will, and I will smile at the feathers and the twigs and the bits of moss that he has left behind. Reminders that he hasn’t properly gone yet. And I will smile at the empty space that he will refill at Christmas because, unlike the birds, he will come back to the nest. And we will welcome him back, and wrap our arms around him and hear about his adventures and how far he has spread his wings since he flew away.

And next year, we will do it all over again with Adora.