The children will soon be fledged - a summer drama

Everyone has left and I'm left alone in the house by the lake. The situation was unexpected; I had actually wanted to spend a week with friends, family or my boyfriend. But unfortunate coronavirus circumstances turned my holiday at the lake into a few lonely days.

There is a small nest on a beam by the house. It belongs to a pair of redstarts and they fly back and forth all day feeding their offspring. The two parents chatter loudly and excitedly whenever I sit on the terrace and disturb them. They then hop excitedly from one branch to another in the neighbouring copse before summoning up all their courage and flying towards the nest. Sometimes they turn round in mid-flight and only dare to approach the loudly chirping bird after several attempts.

I was a little afraid of being alone here. And it took me a while to get used to it. Like when you stumble out of a nightclub in the first light of dawn and your ears go deaf for a moment, until the piercing sounds gradually paint the picture of a normal day. It's like being unexpectedly alone.

Firstly, the feeling that one's own actions only have meaning in relation to others and that it is completely meaningless whether I leave the crockery behind or not. Of course, behind this is the question of whether you have any intrinsic personality that exists even without reference to your fellow human beings. And who I am at all, detached from everyday life, family and friends.

My children live their own lives. Nevertheless, I will always be their mum. And they will be my children.

I ask myself who my children are today. No longer the sweet babies, the little pains in the arse, the helpless beings I tried to make strong to enable them to face the world. They are almost grown up and will soon be living their own lives. Nevertheless, I will always remain their mum. And they my children.

After a few days, there was drama among the black redstarts. The little bird left the nest and hopped back and forth on the beam. It spread its wings and fluttered excitedly. I wondered whether the parents were happy that the stress of finding food would soon be over or what the event meant for them. And how would the little bird learn to fly now?

The exploding spirit of the son

I was also surprised that this little bird didn't seem so small, but rather large compared to the parents, and also looked different. But I couldn't see too much from below and I don't know much about ornithology. The little bird was hopping around wildly when suddenly something fell from the beam. Inspecting it more closely, I found two wafer-thin pieces of what looked like a shell and a gooey, white and yellow substance that had emptied onto the terrace. An egg had fallen out of the nest.

My children are almost grown up. When I talk to my sixteen-year-old on the phone, I realise that he is more man than child. He seems to be changing faster than he has since he was a baby. And I'm not talking about the beard fuzz that's sprouting or the muscles that are shaping his body.

It's his mind that seems to literally explode. Sometimes, when we eat together, a discussion breaks out and I marvel at the thoughts he has. How clever he is, how independent in his thinking. I have followed his every step into the world for so long - now he gives me insights into the completely new world of his mind. He is already talking about moving out.

The old me no longer exists

So I'm alone here. I had dreamed of this for so long. To listen to my own thoughts. And how much I always enjoyed it when a few lonely hours opened up in everyday life, like a hole in the clouds through which the sun suddenly shone.

But now that it's no longer about a few hours, but about my future, it feels different. Now the realisation looms that the old me that I missed so much when I was struggling with my new life as a mother and that I was looking forward to when my children would no longer take up so much of my time, no longer exists.

I wonder whether the current me, the mother who raised her children, will also disappear.

The moment I looked into my newborn daughter's eyes, as a newborn mother, this me was lost. But I only realise that now. Because this old me cast a long shadow over the present. Now, after more than a decade and a half, this shadow has faded. And I wonder whether the current me, the mother who raised her children, will also disappear. Lost, now that my children are slowly fledging.

When the father died

When I lie in bed in the house by the lake, I think of my father. I slept in that bed one night in August, when I was 26 years old and my younger sister was sleeping next to me. The dog we were looking after for our parents suddenly jumped up in the middle of the night and ran off, howling loudly. He had never done that before. We thought nothing of it and went back to sleep.

The early morning by the lake was full of expectation, windless, the lake surface as smooth as glass, I was lying in bed, listening to the birdsong and watching the sunlight play in the branches. Then the ringing of my phone shattered the idyll. It was my older sister. «Hold on,» she said, «Dad has died.»

No other moment has defined my life more than the unexpected death of my father.

My father died an unexpected death in a faraway country. I can still feel the shock today, the heat of the tears burnt me. The path to the room where my sister was still sleeping is only three metres long. But that morning it was endless. I put one foot in front of the other until I was standing in the room. I looked at my sleeping sister for a few seconds before I woke her up and told her the news.

No other moment has defined my life more than the moment of this news. With the exception of looking into the eyes of my newborn daughter. As my father had died in a remote high valley in the India-China border region, he was buried in a fire ceremony. There is no grave there, just a river, into which we scattered his ashes a year later. And we also planted a tree for him at the house by the lake. He was as tall as a man back then. Today, 22 years later, it is a stately weeping willow. When I sit on the terrace, I can see its long branches swaying in the wind, like a woman's hair.

«Have you got a nickel in your bag?»

But now I look at the nest on the beam, where the little bird is hopping back and forth excitedly. Suddenly it hops off the beam and lands fluttering at my feet. I take a good look at it and, after a Google search, I believe it's a young cuckoo.

As I don't know what to do, whether it was an accident or the start of an independent bird's life, I take a ladder and a broom and carefully place the little cuckoo back on the beam without touching it. When it grows up, it will lay its egg in another nest. And throw the other eggs out of the nest and rob them of their future. But it's not up to me to decide which life is more worth living.

I now enjoy being here on my own. I tidy up the garden, mow the lawn, pull weeds. Or sitting on the terrace, listening to the birds, the trees, my own thoughts. The cuckoo on the beam chirps and hops and after a while jumps off the beam again. This time it lands a few metres away, fluttering violently. No longer at my feet, but somewhere in the neighbouring woods. That must be dangerous for such a small bird. But this time I stay seated.

I wish the little cuckoo luck. Maybe I'll hear it calling next spring. Then I'll remember how my father used to say when the cuckoo called: «Have you got a nickel in your pocket? Then when you hear the cuckoo, you'll have money all year round.» My children will probably still be with me next spring, not yet fully fledged. But it won't be long now and when they do, I'll always be there for them.