Dandelion, birds and script on a foot

The dandelions came up along the harbour wall the week after you left, all at once, as if the sea had been holding them back for you. Dad calls them weeds and cuts them with the same blade he uses on the nets, but I let the clocks stand by the net shed. Every morning I blow at one and watch the seeds go out over the boats, one parachute after another, and I tell myself they are yours, going somewhere useful.

The Kittiwake went out on Tuesday with Tomas on the rail. Before she cleared the breakwater a flock of gulls came off the Skerries in a line, low and dark against the grey, and I thought of how you counted birds from the kitchen window when you were small and said each one was a letter you hadn't written yet. I counted nineteen. Only one of them was not black. It was a small blue-purple thing near the back of the line, and it kept catching up.

Mam said it was a starling with a bad feather. I said nothing. I know what I saw, and I know you would have laughed at me for looking.

Your letter came on Friday. You wrote that the city is loud, that you've taken a room above a bakery, and that you still wake at four out of habit. You asked whether I was keeping on with the lessons and whether I'd stopped doubting myself. You always said believing was the easy half. I went down to the wall this morning, took the last clock in my hand and blew it hard toward the water, and watched the seeds lift over the harbour and turn into birds before I could tell them not to. Come home at Christmas. Bring the purple one with you.