51st & Mine

He doesn't like to talk about it.

It seemed that the point was moot about taking my Mother out for the afternoon,

on the day of her Wedding Anniversary.

Her  51st.

I had mentioned it over lunch in the tiny red cafe,

 with my sister in attendance,

and watched as his face changed, 

like a hurrying charcoal cloud flitting across  a golden beach.

He puts down his cutlery and before he can draw breath  I seamlessly change the subject and move away, move away from the glaringly obvious and onto the subject of dessert,

 Ice-cream or shortbread?

And  tea.

A great man for the cup of tea.

The last anniversary I remember celebrating with my parents properly was their 40th.

We hired a Marquee, we children,  

 And  installed it in the garden,

 between the bouncy castle and the trampoline

 With  a floor, 

after much debate and ominous forecasts  of twisted ankles,

amidst much muffled cursing and sibling tantrums

 on a roasting August afternoon.

A number of hours later,

 after standing on the plug of a hairdryer

 left on the stairs of a manic house filled with secret  visitors,

 while  running from a shower wrapped in a towel,

 I was removed by taxi to A&E to be strapped, medicated, and crutched.

Twisted ankle.

A number of hours after that,  

 the image captured for posterity,

 is of me in my default setting, 

where out of my mind, 

on Ponstan and wine, 

I flirt with a beardy musician.

And my Father tries to pretend he is not delighted

 that not only have I brought the entire Wexford Folk Orchestra, 

but also his beloved violin.

He always pretends not to smile, 

often turning his head away to laugh, 

and I feel it is a legacy of a childhood where beatings and punishments

 in school and chapel,  

were considered not only normal 

but in fact, de rigeur.

“Spare the rod and spoil the child”

“Children should be seen and not heard”

“Don’t speak until you’re spoken to”

“Sit down and whisht, and mind your manners. “

“Get down on your knees and pray for redemption and salvation from the fiery furnaces of hell and its flames for all eternity”

He remembers getting a box in the side of the head

 from a “Christian” Brother

 for writing with the butt of a pencil, 

all he had.

There was a war on.

I am asking the Musician to play a certain song, 

one that I know he knows,   

one that my parents will love.

We told them we were taking them out to dinner, 

and then for a few jars in their local.

“I don’t want any fuss, mind” 

He remonstrates giving me the eye, 

which I blithely ignore and rustle up a whole world of fuss, and food, and drinks, and people.

The sister pretended she had to call to the brothers after the meal,

 on a pretext  of checking on her 4 year old son.

In the warm summer darkness, 

they walked around the side of the house on the hill

 and straight into their own Ceili 

-which was in full swing and at full throat - 

  my Father pulled back the flaps and saw all of us there,

 cheering, and shouting, 

our hair plastered to our heads with the heat,

 and the drink, 

and the water running down the marquee walls with the sweat flying off the band,

 giving it socks.

In the photo I managed to take in the split second that he does this ,

 I captured their frozen images forever,

 my Fathers face a mass of conflicting emotions,  

shock , surprise, mortification and pleasure, 

 my Mother -  

smiling and pointing in delight.

Pointing.

It’s been a while since we saw movement 

 and the wide open spaces of our hearts

 stretch and contract 

when we notice the smallest of twitches,

 a finger moving on a soft fleece blanket,

 the tiniest nod of a bent white head, 

a muscle flickering beside a closed eye.

Bring her OUT?

The jury itself appears to be out

 on whether it would be traumatic to hoist her broken body, 

with its fizzing synapses not travelling down the endless miles of muscle and memory, 

into her chair, 

and try to wrap her in blankets and throws,

 a pashmina fashioned into a makeshift scarf 

to keep the breeze from her hair, 

and whether it would be invasive and pointless and just heartbreaking.

Or whether She would love it.

It could not be much more heartbreaking than their 50^th last year,

 when I prevailed upon the head honcho of the Franciscan Friary across the road

 to come out and bless her.

And collect me and an ornery needy Chihuahua

 who thinks he is people.

And have the tea with us.

To his credit, he played a blinder and shared stories of his youth and vocation while we waited for the Nurses to wheel in the cake, 

the table of ham salad sandwiches and cream sponges laid waste

 by the hulking teenagers

 high as kites on fizzy drinks,

 Pavarotti blasting Nessun Dorma on the Nursing home tape deck in the window,

 Siobhan being spoon fed a lukewarm bowl of mush.

He even re-blessed her bowed head,

 curled sideways into the chair, 

when I told him he was like Speedy Gonzales with the hands

 and I hadnt even got the camera open on my phone.  

Oh, the humanity.

Oh, the documenting.

We took him out for lunch on the day of the 51^st to a building like a barn, 

with screeching infants, 

piped Muzak,

 chrome counters

 and the deafening din of chairs being dragged around, 

trays banging off tables.

 I thought longingly of the small red cafe and the man who knows us by name,

 and who reads this,

 and sighed. 

There was a lot of us though, all the children and grandchildren present and correct.

I use the term loosely.

The missing space at the table was occupied by a soft cardigan.

 I left it behind in her room one day.  

It was laundered and labelled by the time I remembered.

I saw her in it on a visit and thought how lovely she looked, 

the pale pink contrasting with her hair,

 the ruffle at the neck and cuffs making her look

 like she was heading out somewhere.

Anywhere.

 I left it there for a year.

One night, cold in a sleeveless dress, I extricated it and wore it home.

“That’s Mam’s cardigan” says he when I get out of the car,

 and I show him the small button pressed into the label, 

that the girls in housekeeping have attached.

It says “Siobhan Mahon” on it.

He reaches out his index finger and rubs it, 

squinting over his glasses, while the jugs of iced water rattle on the trolley beside us.

“Leave it on it” says he.

Sometimes I wonder does he know me at all.

Late that night on the phone I try to pump him about the actual day in 1963, and where they went, and what it was like. It’s like pulling teeth.

Oh, it was all so long ago 

he sighs when I persist and I tell him goodnight,

 and to pour himself a half one, 

and that it is a milestone day, 

and he should be happy.

The wide open spaces of his heart have a lonely wind rustling through them, and the plaintive sound of a  curlew, calling.

He doesn't like to talk about it.

MDM August 19^th 2014