The busyness, the rush of planning and preparation, had prevented her really thinking about the moment of Anna's leaving. That last night she lay in the half dark listening to her husband's soft snores, all the time aware of her daughter's continued presence in the next room, unable to imagine its lack. She was still awake, at least it felt that way, when she heard the heating boiler fire up at six, so she slipped from under the quilt and padded down to the kitchen. From the window she watched a lone blackbird at the top of the apple tree summon the morning. It arrived unceremoniously. Taking a cup of tea back upstairs she tapped on her daughter's bedroom door and opened it. Anna was standing at the window pulling open the curtains. As the sunlight shafted through it glinted off the cloud of dust motes falling around her and haloed her hair in golden light. She handed Anna the cup and they stood and looked around. The room was bare without the clutter of adolescence; the bed looked old and rather shabby, the makeshift desk marked with scratches and stains.
"I'll miss it," Anna said, sipping her tea.
That was all she wanted to hear.
(Feeling nostalgic at the thought of baby birds flying the nest.)
(Linking back to Magpie Tales)
