Oh look at the sky, I said. It reminds me of New Mexico. Baby blue clouds mixed with tiny pinks and bold orange and the day as cold as hell. If hell is cold. I said that and everyone ran to the window to try to conjure up what I said. And my son tells me, he loves the world. And I said that is good. That is fantastic. And he was home from college for the weekend. Luxuriating in home. The fire. The hot whiskey toddys. The smell of baked potatoes. The promise of a good meal on the table and the candle that never burns too low and if it does is always replenished.
It was a difficult week and then a beautiful thing of having my three sons in one place. A fire lit. The living room suddenly appearing small with three grown men in my presence. And so much to talk about. So much. We talk non-stop. The beagle. The house. The need for insulation. The small sundry items. The death of Savita. I find that difficult especially when my son tells me that there was a gathering of people on the street today in Galway with images of seven week old foetuses on display. I am appalled. Distressed. Find it insensitive to say the least. And we talk about Aunty Flor, my beautiful Aunt who ended up in a nursing home and how the last time I saw her was through a rain speckled glass having her tea. I never saw her again. Our life is full of these images. Aunty Flor, forgotten and neglected.
But then within a day a sense of something special comes with the realisation that if I could bottle my son who comes home I would sell him. He is a sensitive soul. I miss him when he is not here because we inevitably end up talking about Hemingway and Fitzgerald like they are long lost friends. I scroll through the book shelves with books for him to take away as long as he promises to bring them back to me. I make Lemon Loaf. Easy but delicious. A blend of confectioners sugar and lemon juice confirms that, gurantees the glaze. I dig out a jar of blackberry jam for dessert. Spread it on the golden loaf. It is delicious.
Dogs are funny. They like to die on their home ground. Away from humans. My son reminds me of the story I told him once about the woman I met in the park. She confessed to me how her dog was acting strange one day and wanted to go outside. He was old. He ambled up to the shrubs in her garden and lay down to die. I don't remember telling him that story but he reminded me of it tonight and he said how the dog died naturally and with dignity left a mark on him. It is true. The dog died in a place he wanted to die in. It was his time. The right time is what nature dictates. The wrong time is what man deems. My eyes are sore and tired. My son rejuvenates them. His belief carries me on. His age gives me youth. What else is there to celebrate? What else is there to write about?