Pagoda and bird in ornate frames on thighs

The cherry at the bottom of the garden came into flower on Tuesday, two days after Mr Okonedo's lad carted the old summerhouse off to the tip. You'll remember it, the little pagoda thing with the latticed sides that Dad bought at the Harrogate auction and never once sat in. I couldn't bring myself to scrap it, so I hung a finch feeder from its roof and left the door propped open with a brick. I thought that was the end of the matter.

This morning a bird went in and wouldn't come out. I stood at the kitchen window with my tea going cold and watched it hop from one slat to the next, looking at the blossom through the gaps as though it had been sent to read the lattice for us. The sky over the wall was the flat grey of wet slate, but the branches were full of pink, and every gust sent petals skidding across the lawn like a spilled box of confetti.

I went out in my slippers and knelt by the door. I didn't reach in. I just said your name, which is daft, and the bird turned its head and looked straight at me. Then it lifted off the roof beam, not through the door but straight out through the top of the latticework where the rotten board had given way, and it went up over the wall towards the cherry as if it had always known the way.

I've left the brick where it is. Come up at Easter and tell me I'm soft. I'll put the kettle on.

Love, Mum