The Question

When you came home you were flying high chattering on about all the lovely wild birds you had seen. I was writing and nodding not really listening, just surfing the harmonic waves of your words. Eventually you fell silent. Then - in a small voice: “Do you think I am boring?” The dusk began to paint an obituary. Within a harrowing silence a child's angry fist began to beat upon my heart. A hundred beautiful images of your charmed and spontaneous nature immediately broke the thin ice of my mind. I got up and sat next to you, reached for your hand, - my speech thick with the weight of remorse: “Tell me about the birds again."