The Inevitable March of Time…
…in which parents fade and rally and woodpeckers appear…
“I’m glad I’m not an ant”, my mother announces.
We are sitting in the garden in a brief moment of full sunburst, looking at the patio paving slabs.
“Look - it’s driving itself mad.” she declares.
The ant in question is rushing around largely in circles on the surface of one of the slabs, never crossing onto a neighbouring paving stone. Occasionally, it pauses to investigate something but it discards each finding and rushes on. I wonder if it has a form of OCD and am briefly reminded of the film Awakenings, when Robin Williams paints tiles onto the floor so the woman can reach the window.
“Perhaps it can’t cross the edges of the paving” I say.
We sit and watch the ant for a while longer. Other ants are gathered on a different paving stone, all looking very busy.
So far, Mum hasn’t declared she is going home or not staying. She looks well. She is walking sturdily. One of the staff ask her if she’d like a hot chocolate with whipped cream. She reverts to her usual response.
“No, thank you.”
They try to tempt her but she is adamant. When they bring it anyway, she wrinkles her nose and offers it to me. I decline and a minute later she takes a tentative sip before spooning up the cream with her straw and drinking the liquid with relish.
“Nice?” I ask.
“Yes,” she sounds surprised. “I wouldn’t have chosen it for myself.”
The resident robin appears again, briefly landing on the chair opposite us before seeming startled by our presence and flitting away.
Something catches my eye and when I turn to look, a green woodpecker is on the path between the grass. I catch my breath and tap Mum on the arm.
“Look”, I whisper.
The woodpecker bounces on elastic legs, its heavy body swaying as it lollops across the grass. It flies onto the trunk of one of the apple trees and remains there for several minutes. We sit watching it, entranced. It stays very still, only moving its red-capped head occasionally from side to side, checking its surroundings. When it flies off, I miss it.
I look up woodpecker symbolism. It is various and detailed but I am struck by the bit about it being a sign that horizons are broadening, new opportunities are opening and that it is a sign of protecting the vulnerable. This seems particularly apt given recent events and our current location.
***
A week later, Mum and I are in the garden again. It’s warm and sunny and we sit beneath the cherry tree on a bench. Something in the grass shimmers and glistens, vibrating in the light. I walk over to it. A group of flying ants have emerged.
I report back to my mother.
“They’re flying off to find new homes”, she says.
It seems miraculous that once a year, these new males and queens will disperse to start up new colonies of their own. We notice other shimmering patches in the grass, as new groups appear. We watch them crossing the air. When a gardener appears with some spray to get rid of them, I stand in front of the gang by the leg of the bench so he doesn’t notice them. It works - they are left alone to fly and live.
My mum’s lunch is on the table. She is distracted by a flying ant who is sitting on the table leg. She points at it.
“It’s okay, it’ll leave soon. It’s just having a rest,” I say. She frowns but goes back to her lunch.
“Go away!” she shouts at a tiny ant who is enthusiastically making its way towards her plate. I move the ant for her.
“I wonder what ants think about?” my mother poses.
We are quiet for a bit. Does an ant think about its friends? What it will have for tea that evening? Where it’s going next? Is it jealous of ants above it on the hierarchy, resentful of the caste system in which it lives? There is a part of me that thinks it must be quite nice to be one tiny bit of something bigger, to know exactly how you fit into the overall mission.
***
At the museum in Cheddar Gorge, with my sister and niece, there is information about different insects. I am captivated by the one about ants. When M and I visit Mum, I relay it to her.
“Do you know that ants don’t have lungs?” I ask. “Instead, they have tiny holes all over their bodies that they breathe through.” I am unable to provide even the most basic scientific detail beyond this. “And their blood is colourless.” I state.
We sit in my mum’s room watching the Olympics for a bit.
“There was a snail on my window”, my mum says, pointing at the mark it left.
M finds an ant on him. I put it out of Mum’s window and then worry that it has been separated from its colony.
“I don’t think I’d like to be an ant.” my mum says.
***
Today, I am going on holiday. I will be leaving almost 14 years to the hour that Dad died. It feels surreal and abstract. I think about the years since he’s died. All that has happened. While Mum’s health has been challenging and I feel sad for her sometimes, I am also relieved that she is cared for and still able to enjoy certain things in life. Perhaps the warmth of the sun on your face and a tasty dessert are not to be underestimated.
I wonder what Dad would say if he was still here. He’d probably be telling me all about air traffic control, and encouraging me to visit the flight deck. I ask M what he thinks my dad would be saying if he were here.
“Where are me fags? Is there any whiskey?” M announces.
I laugh and then feel the brief pang, always wishing I’d given him exactly these in his last days. It’s possibly why we bring Mum so many sweet treats now that she probably shouldn’t have.
But, while I don’t know what he’d say if he were here, I do hear his voice in my head. “Hello, luvva” he says. Before wishing me a nice time and to stay safe. And to definitely look at the flight deck.
