I settle them with their books at the kitchen table and creep to my desk in the upstairs hallway. Quickly, I open a file and pin some words to the page, plucking them out of the silence and getting them down, getting them down. I’m pausing to flesh out my embryonic thoughts when the noise begins and footsteps clatter up the stairs. I start listening halfway through, dragged from my work by long division with decimals, irregular Irish verbs, and accusations of unfairness. The birds, the butterflies, the words take flight and I gather in my brood with my wings.
Fiona McKay lives and writes beside the sea in Dublin, Ireland. Find her on Twitter @fionaemckayryan.