I observe them. All three of them.
Eating hamburgers around the table.
What's the secret Mom, they mutter, in between ravenous bites.
Oh, nothing major, I sigh. A bit of this, a bit of that;
fresh thyme, a beaten egg, whizzed up onion and garlic.
Mix it well.
Mmm. They bend their heads to the food.
Birds. Pigeons in Galway today. Silly creatures. Bend and strut
constantly pecking, never satisfied.
A three year old girl, blonde, toddles after them, shoo, shoo, she says in her young little
I talk to the Mother, a stranger to me. She's the only one, that's it, she says, resigned,
I'll never have another.
She's, pointing to the pigeon hunter, a handful, from all accounts.
Can you have another? I want to ask. Is it a choice?
I never thought about having my sons. They happened. They came
into me and out of me without much contemplation.
I nursed them and bathed them and walked them and loved them and read to them and
never ever said, that's it.
What is finality. Is it closing curtains on decisions before knowing the outcome, like one
would before the sun has set?
Grey skies seem final. Each day they come and settle on the place like day old porridge in
a sticky pot.
Too old to eat, you spoon it out and throw it in the bin.
Coagulation is a strange word. It can be good or bad.
In this case the skies coagulate too much and there is no leeway,
Hope and china blue seem lost -
Great burgers Mom. What did you do? I'll never have another child. Grey skies seem
final -but everyone knows that.