' Becoming A Birdwatcher' by Brid McGinley

Frank told his mother he needed binoculars, that he wanted to be a birdwatcher, and would also like a camera. Lately she hadn’t laughed much, and Frank didn’t understand why birdwatching was funny, but hearing her laugh and cry, chanting birdwatcher, birdwatcher, made Frank feel happy.

‘A bigger birdwatching book would be good too’ Frank said between laughs, ‘one like Dad’s.’

She stopped laughing and the sad look came back, making Frank sorry that he had spoiled everything again. He just wanted to see Dad, sit on his knee, look at pictures of robins and wrens, make plans for trips to see puffins. Frank loved puffins, short and fat, orange feet and beaks, how they rubbed beak to beak, looking to have a friendly chat.

‘I’m sorry son,’ Dad whispered the last time Frank saw him, and he didn’t know why Dad hugged him so tight, his face sad like Mam’s.

‘Cameras are expensive, Mam, binoculars would be enough,’ Frank said, hoping she might laugh again, but she stared into the distance, eyes open but seeing nothing.

Today Frank had packed his birdwatching bag; torch, notebook and pencil in the front, easy to hand like Dad said, banana and crackers in the main part. It won’t be much fun without Dad, he thought, trying not to worry about finding the way to the hide, but maybe Dad was missing him too and would be waiting there for him. Outside, Frank looked down the street, moon-dark, startled by a hooting owl, suddenly aware of the gap left by the binoculars.

Now as he walked back up the front path, his Mam stood against streaming light in the doorway, arms outstretched, and her heart thumped against his ear as her wings enfolded him, and Frank wondered did puffins have cosy nests.