A Happy Anniversary

My father reminded me that it would be six years on Saturday next since my mother died. It's understandable, I suppose, as we trundle on that we seem to measure time by the number of people who have died, or have had a Month's Mind, or whose gravestone was put up, or whose grave is in a disgraceful condition or maybe not so disgraceful now we've fixed it.

I do have a strong feeling of family, even among those uncles, aunts and cousins whom I don't see very often. We are a peculiar lot we Walshes and Sweeneys and Redmonds and Tanhams, Hills, Spears and Rodgers. We leave one another steadfastly to ourselves for most of the time until something happens to bring us back together. Then someone not seen for a long while turns up unexpectedly, mostly, it seems these days, at funerals. We cluster together and try to figure out who the people in other little clusters are. Someone will intoduce themselves and shake a hand or kiss a cheek and an old friendship will be rekindled or a new acquaintence begun. Myself, I am wholly satisfied to know that the family is out there doing its own thing, moving on with itself and also that we can nod at each other a bit from time to time in passing. It's enough.

I know my Mam would have been astounded and astonished to see the picture my sister sent me this week of her daughter's baby asleep in the womb. A 3D scan taken in the hospital in closeup showed the wee laddy or lassie (we still await the surprise on that one) as clearly as if a picture had been taken of the babby in its own warm cot. And it won't be in one of those until December, when it's due.

Our Mam's third great-grandchild. And my father's too, of course.

He stared, astounded, at the photograph on the computer screen.

"Isn't it amazing what they can do now?" I said, to fill the silence.

"Yes," he said, his voice catching just a little.

So we're off and doing what people do. The family growing. And thinking, at this time of the year, where we've come from. My Mam would have found a reason in it to pour a giant whiskey and colour it with red lemonade and call herself "Mad aul' wan" with her wicked laugh on her. She would have poured us each a bigger measure, tut-tutting when we protested that we'd be drunk or had to drive or even walk somewhere.

"You only live once," she'd say. "The doctor says I'm not to have it at all!"

Sure, what does he know, Ma?

"Plenty, maybe. But I don't care."

Cheers... Mad aul' wan...

And she'd laugh and sip whiskey and watch the television.

When the adverts came on, she'd look up at the photos on the wall and say:

"Imagine all those are my family! Edie would never believe it."

And she'd look at the picture of her mother, Edie, til the ads were gone.

Days of birds and heavy weather

These past few days. Firstly on the top deck of a bus sweltering along, looking at all and nothing. I noticed over the back gardens of houses off the Old Bawn Road a flock of starlings sweeping upwards. One would arc lower using the downward fall of its trajectory to gain speed then turning the angle of its wings slightly, pulling up, up into the sky, high, higher than I had ever seen them flying before. Something about their dancing skywards puzzled me. Then I realised they were hunting. Catching flying ants rising in the heat.

The birds' wings, stretched wide out to lift them on the hot air the princess ants and male, winged ants were soaring through in invisible clouds, would suddenly twist and fold in an anxious stall as the bird almost stopped to snap up another pair of mating insects.

Further down the road, great flocks of seabirds spiralled upwards over the parklands, following the swarms. White wings upraised they swooped gracefully and plucked at the air.

No-one among the footballers or walkers or commuters stuck in traffic noticed them.

This evening, walking down the long concrete foothpath towards home I noticed scurrying platoons of ant attendants rushing frantically about, encouraging latecoming princesses in lacy wings to take off onto the dull breeze in the torid heat and run the gauntlet in the sky.

Far off towards the mountains a column of hundreds of pairs of white feathered wings blazed in the sunlight, a beautiful ballet of death and of life. The children, bored with summer holidays, didn't look up, but went about the business of who was playing with whom and who's pick it was.

Nothing ever happens in Firhouse, no doubt they'll say.

Birds

Closing the gate looking up. Or stepping outside onto the grass to the rear of the house with the sun already disappearing. In the last light of navigation the crows begin to come home in twos, then in scores, finally in one great flock like burned papers wheeling over.

They caw-caw at each other. Answering, another caw, further off, fainter, as more come into view. They poke at each other in flight, full of mischief.

"Look out! You're falling!"

"No I'm not! I can fly higher than you!"

The strong beat of black wings, the noise and cackles suddenly overhead now, black crosses flapping by. Some are glossy with this year's feathers. Many beaks are greyer, wiser. The urge to stare upwards vertically is sore in the back of the neck as they pass over.

On windier days the passage is quicker, but no less puncuated with enthusiasm. They streak by, arcing back to circuit over the houses as if the journey should only take so long and no longer, turning back on their flight paths in figures of eight.

Then, a mirror version of their first appearance, the throng thins as the majority seek roosts further down the road in the trees beside the convent and by the river. Some few pass by in sixes, fours, twos, until only one more comes lately by, calling for the others, wings beating purposefully homewards.

It happens every evening. I am glad.