The night my father died, a rare summer storm swept across Coleshill. My sister Tess said the low rumbling bass of the thunder was Dad telling us goodbye. When a starling fluttered by the seed box the next morning she said, “That’s him Paul, that’s him. He wants us to know he is okay.”
I had sat with him the previous evening in the hospital, holding his mottled hand as the last light leaked from his eyes and his papery lips flushed a cold neutral blue.
“Sure,” I said. “Maybe.”