I discovered some words I threw down in a notebook, exactly two years ago this week: a vignette of my daughter Aoife in a nonsuch moment I wanted to preserve for ever and ever and ever
On Wings of Song: A soundtrack playing that moment on RTÉ Lyric FM, to me standing at the sink, watching through the window as Aoife sat on the gravel pile outside.
She was seven years old, gap-toothed (I couldn’t see from where I stood, but I knew). She cuddled a kitten (Puffin). She held the kitten at arms length, spoke to her, then draped her over her shoulder. The daft little kitten was such a peata that she simply complied with whatever Aoife wanted to do with her. Aoife fluttered with her to the sand table, drooped the kitten over it to entice her to drink the (surely rank) water. Then she flitted on again.
She was seven years old, and I could envisage the “big girl” she would become. Already I noticed her stretching somewhat taller, yet still I saw the tiny fairy toddler. She teetered a dainty bridge between two worlds
Tuesday 15th September 2015