Littlest Christmas




Little Women, Little Sisters, Little Christmas.

Little Thomasina drove slowly away with the tiny Walter staring crestfallen out the window in his fur trimmed hood.
He wants to come in but he doesn't think he can handle it.
The dog feels similar.
Her room is empty when I look in, and seems oddly sparse, the Stephen Hawking chair that takes up more room than a sofa gone, the presence, the colour of the patchwork blanket around her legs missing.
The light and contrast have been erased.
Siobhan is parked in the corner of the packed Oratory where Mass will be celebrated for Little Christmas, and the Annual Party.
I release the brake and manoeuvure the giant chair through the slippers and wheels and handbags, back out the door and up the hall in one fluid movement and the nick of time.
I tell a Nurse on the way that we will celebrate ourselves.
Her hands are cold and she opens her eyes for one second to look at me, and I smile into her blue eyes.
"Wait till I take off the hat, Siobhan, then you'll know me" -
There is a smile on her own face and I almost faint.
I skip over to the wardrobe to hang my coat thinking today will be an excellent day, and I will work hard at trying to remember, and be present, and listen and record salient points and facts.
I will be the Witness.
Then the door opens and Siobhan's Little Sister comes in.
She has been redirected from the Mass to find us hiding out in plain sight.
We talk and laugh and goster between us while all the sacred holy stuff is happening a hundred yards away.
The door opens and a Carer pops her head in.
"Would Siobhan like a blessing?" says she.
"She'd LOVE one" says I.
"God love her anyway" says the Priest with the white shawl as he leaves.
************************
Soon, we see the hordes descending on the room where the food is at and I brave the throng to get my Godmother a glass of wine. And my Mother.
Little Christmas was known as the Women's Christmas, as it was felt that they could have a rest from boiling hams and stuffing bread up turkeys arses, icing cakes for biscuit tins, and flaming brandy for puddings and could sit down in peace by the fire, on their own arses, eating all the above leftovers, until as full as their own puddings, they could get flaming drunk.
Siobhan had 8 brothers and 3 sisters, and out of all that lot, it is 3 women who are left.
Siobhan, Madge and Anne.
In that order.
Madge watches me feed Siobhan and is inflicted with random bursts of me reading stuff off my phone, showing her photos, and ranting about the minutae of my life,
".........And the Dog is found, thank Christ" ........... Says I drawing a breath.
I have a spoonful of bashed up Trifle on its way to her mouth when Siobhan opens her eyes wide, smiles broadly,and slowly raises her small arm, uncurls her hand and points.
I am speechless.
There is a light around her.
"Madge, Madge, Madge".............  I say and reach for the camera.
Madge is staring.
Siobhan continues to look  and smile, her finger points into the very corner of the room and She seems transfixed.
I am snapping and snapping, the dark, the flash, the shutter speed, I can't get it, ....I can't get it, .........I'm getting it.
"Who are you seeing, Siobhan......... What are you seeing Siobhan?" I ask as the spoon falls to the carpet.
Her finger moves, barely, imperceptibly, and then shakily around and around ............ until it is pointing at me.
I snap and snap.
And then, like a clockwork doll winding down, the lights go out, the hand slowly drops down and the blue eyes close.
I am delightedly shocked.
I am shockingly delighted.
Michelle Shocked.
When I bring the bowls back to the kitchen I lean in over the giant chair and say - "Tell your sister the 3rd Secret of Fatima for the Little Womens Christmas" and my own walks down the hall to bring me home.
2 pairs of Sisters,
Mother and Daughters,
Aunt and Nieces,
Godmother and Godchild.
Godchild.
A woman I have been running away from for months, never having the time to engage, or ever actually MEET for the coffee I have sworn and promised faithfully every single time, finally caught up with me the other day.
I was ready to trot out an excuse about having to leg it when she unzipped her bag hastily and handed me a piece of paper with this on it -
"People who have Alzheimers are living breathing examples of Mindfulness, of Presence, and of simply BEING - as they have no past, they have no future , they have only the NOW that they inhabit."
These are my words as she took the piece of paper back to keep. You get my drift though.
There may have been Sacred, Holy stuff going on closer than I thought.
My own Little Sister took the photograph, as though I have thousands OF her, I have few WITH her.
Blessings and love from the Women for your own Little Christmas.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

OPENING DOORS

Image
  Opening Doors I was born after the fireworks during an opera in 1964 and from the off was an unusual child. Having escaped every form of enclosure as a baby and being found at the bottoms of numerous stairs, on window sills and in presses I was christened a Divilskin.   I sat sideways in prams, propped on yellow satin cushions, listening. As an infant I looked like a very old soul. While still a toddler I eavesdropped in cars and relayed information back to the people who were being discussed, much to the mortification of the adults. I always opened doors in other people’s houses, of rooms that weren’t even tidy, and rooted in their cupboards asking can I have this, so I could take a piece of them home .   I was tied into the back seat of an Austin 1100 with baling twine to stop me climbing out the windows and regularly given a drop of the craythur on a dodo to sedate me enough to sleep. As a little girl   I played alone with dolls, endlessly dressing and undressing them
Read more

GRAVITY - a dramatic review of a blanket

Image
mdm Zzz I saw the word sleep in the ad. And women curled up under grey blankets. Blah blah blah ........ so very what I thought and scrolled on. It came back into my feed repeatedly so I tapped the link. It's a heavy blanket to calm you down is what it is. Calm a scourge? A woman with a racing brain who rarely sleeps ? Go ahead, hit me with your best shot. My amazing Doctor  -  had once issued the immortal line - "We'll have to bring out the big guns " and prescribed a strong sedative that I became immune to as speedily as my head races. Trying to sleep with the mania of a Bi-Polar high means that your brain is fizzing with kaleidoscopic colours and thoughts. Sometimes it hurts more to shut my eyes because of the flickering. On tour with my play I lay on a hotel bed in the last hours of sunlight before showtime and remarked wearily to a woman in the corner that it was easier to stay awake. As a child I had many names. That Divilskin.
Read more

Frankly Speaking - An Essay - Part 1

Image
"I like the way you've done my eyes Meeeee shell" Artwork  © MDM I met Frank Sinnott when I was a Communion Child in 1971. I was brought across the road to be given a pound and have my dress admired. I was terrified of a parade of random hairy dogs that lay across the steps of Old Pound House like savage mats. I was almost more frightened of the hairy lad looking out at me from under his wild hair in the hall. He started to visit us, making wildly inappropriate suggestions to my Mother, each of whom had a soft spot for the other.  We were privy to all the comings and goings across the road, from the house going up in flames to Sonny Condell ringing the bell looking for divilment at 3am after a gig. He tried to teach me the guitar but I was more fascinated by the peas in his beard and the newspapers on every inch of the room. As I grew up I began to write, and it was Frank who gave me my first writing gig on his beloved "Boker". This time last year I
Read more