The Song of a Blackbird

 

I was feeling really unwell and had somehow struggled to the supermarket. I was worried about how much time I would have before needing to make a quick dash.

As I walked the aisles quickly grabbing things. Someone spoke. She was a former pupil, now with grown up children of her own. A lovely woman and under other circumstances I would have loved a longer chat. However, I could feel my temperature rising, sweat edging to the edges of my brow, and my panic rising as my stomach threatened to cramp yet again and churn.

The pain had been so bad the previous day I’d had to hold my breath wondering how people endured this with more chronic conditions. I made a quick escape from the conversation without giving the real reason and hurriedly dashed to scoop a few more essential items from the shelves. I was after the BRAT diet for myself: bananas, rice, applesauce and toast; and then food for The Teenager who had luckily been unaffected by this stomach bug.

I raced to the checkout hoping to find the smallest queue, thinking that for once I might say, “Yes please, do help me with the packing this time,” when asked; but when it was my turn, I didn’t. Though, when I slowed the woman serving me did help, and I was so grateful to her.

I paid and rushed back to the car, and drove back home.

As I parked, I could hear a song even before I’d turned off the engine. It was a blackbird. It sang the song that told me I was home, that I’d made it. It was the blackbird that sung its song for this little group of terraced houses. I’d never really stopped to listen to it before. I hadn’t realised that I’d somehow internalised the sound, but as I turned off the ignition and listened I guessed that it was a call unique to this particular blackbird and this particular place: home. I guessed that should ten such songs be played that I would have known the one that said, “You are home.”

And never had a blackbird’s song sounded more beautiful.