The robin is perched on the railing of the balcony outside. I can tell without even looking out there. I’d know its song anywhere, though I wouldn’t have expected to see one here, at this time of year, and in this idyllic holiday cottage where I’m staying. I smile to myself and finish making my morning coffee. I picked up these coffee beans in the local market yesterday, and their chocolate-rich aroma fills my nostrils as I stir in the milk, the spoon jangling pleasingly against the china cup.
A robin used to arrive in our garden every year on the anniversary of Grandma’s death when I was a child. Mum would ask me to help write a newsletter for the bird to take to her, wherever she was, updating her on all that we had been up to that year. I used to love sticking in photos and drawing pictures of all the activities we had done and all the holidays we had been on.
“Why does Grandma never write back?” I asked Mum one day.
“Because the Robins can’t come back once they have entered Heaven,” she said. “It’s a special sacrifice they make just for her, because she nursed an injured one back to health once.”
I pick up my cup and head towards the golden light streaming through the balcony doors. “Hi, Robin!” I call out to my new holiday companion, his outline visible through the gossamer curtains.
Mum must have had a bond with the Robins too, because these days they send one to me on the anniversary of her death. My daughter, in turn, took joy throughout her childhood in the ritual of the letter-writing and of watching our little red-breasted postman fly off into the distance, an envelope clasped in its beak.
What a treat to see one here, on a completely random date.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I say as I pull back the curtain, blinking in the morning sun.
It’s only when my eyes acclimatise that I notice that the bird is carrying something. I pause, coffee cup poised in my outstretched hand, not quite yet reaching the surface of the table. I must be hallucinating in my pre-caffeine, sleepy state. That’s what it is.
I carefully sit down and place the cup on the table, waiting for the liquid to stop swaying before I dare to look again at the bird. And my stomach drops at the exact moment that the robin’s beak opens and the envelope lands at my feet.
There is just one word on the front of the envelope.
“Mum.” In my daughter’s handwriting.
