Two swallows on a wrist

The swallows are back in the byre. Two of them, the same pair as last year if I'm allowed to believe it, and I am, because nobody on Carrick Vane has ever been able to prove otherwise. They came in low over the harbour wall on Tuesday, one just ahead of the other, the way you used to race me down the lane when we were small and I always cheated by starting early.

Mam has finally agreed to sell the boat. Mr Doherty from the mainland offered four hundred for the Maisie Rose, which is an insult, though I carried the offer to the kitchen table anyway and we argued over it for an hour while the kettle boiled dry twice. I'm not writing to tell you about the money. I'm writing because the boat was the last thing that tied you to the place, and I wanted you to hear it from me before some gossip in Oban gets to you first.

Last night I sat on the slipway until the tide turned and watched the birds working the bay, skimming low over the water for flies and climbing again, never once touching down. Dad used to say a swallow that never lands is a swallow with somewhere to be. I used to think that was a sad thing to say about a bird. I don't now. They don't sit about waiting for permission to leave.

The ferry is Thursday. I've packed your old blue jersey, the one with the hole at the elbow, and a tin of Mam's shortbread that she says you can't open until you're across the Sound. Write when you reach wherever they've put you. Tell me if the swallows follow you south, because I'd like to know whether they do.