Seasons

I hear her come out of the bathroom, hear her pause outside the door, before she knocks, once, quietly. When she steps inside I lower my book a little; she has one hand at the top of her nightdress and she's looking away and down, at a corner of my desktop, and I know in the movement of her hand across her breastbone - reflexive, a sort of regular rhythm - that she has something to say. I stop reading, but I keep holding the book. And I wait for her to begin.

So I was at the train station today, she says, I had just missed the one before and the platform was empty, so I thought, so I went to the office and I thought I'd ask, I'd ask what happened the week before, and he said yes it was a girl up in Drogheda, and I asked did she die and he said no, they do usually, the others did, but she didn't, she lost a leg and some fingers I think.

I wait. I'm remembering now - she had said there was a delay, I remember.

And he said yes, she says, yes, it's the season for it now.

Her hand moves to the back of her neck now, rubbing slowly, thoughtfully.

The season, she says. Apparently they get a lot around now, there's been two since, and I remember at the time someone had said there had been one just before, and he said yes now he'd be expecting more before the end of the week. I said the season, and he said yes, yes it's exam time you see.

I lower the book, lay it open on my bed.

I had to ask you know, she says, because, because I had this girl in my head so I had to ask, otherwise I would never have known. As if it were a bird we ran over.

My mother stares off into nothingness.

I think of birds littering the tracks, out on the quiet country railway lines, criss-crossing, criss-crossed, across the empty fields.