The last times slip by unnoticed, then one day the nest is empty
I’m writing this from a silent house: half my family are away. This is remarkable. No one has left the familial bubble for more than a supermarket run in months, an unnatural state of affairs that has left me hollow-eyed, monosyllabic and short-fused, and them condemned to live with a harpy.
The 16-year-old went to France for a few days (an agonising should we, shouldn’t we dance, due to none of us having a crystal ball) and now his father has joined him. My elder son is here, but keeps himself to himself (yes, that makes him sound like a murderer and me his neighbour, interviewed for the local paper. I can’t rule that out, it’s 2020). He watches TV with me for an hour in the evening, as one might dutifully keep an elderly relative company. Other than that, it’s just me, the dog and the pigeon that occasionally puts its head through the skylight.
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