Short Story

Original Sin

I can feel the hurt that you felt

As you slept on cold boards

To the hush of leaves

And uncertain tones.

As you buttoned crisp fresh shirts

Prepared by a caring sister,

I sense your anxiety and shame

And the dread of scorn

Coming your way at work.

Your wound is a cruel blow

Inflicted by harsh human failing

In an unforgiving milieu.

The wound won’t heal;

And let’s not ignore

Its contagion.

Mam

I’d be holding a sign at a London train station

With just Mam on it.

People would pass

Some men would ignore it; others glance

At it – then me.

Women would pause.

With a smile or a look

And then one woman would stop and drop her bag.

And we would embrace.

This is a day I would have loved

This could

have

been.

The God of Coincidences – addendum

You told me you were a cleaner in Ardkeen hospital.

One of the many parts of your life that you revealed.

Your husband was a security man.

I knew him and he looked tired and sad.

Then you told me about how Ardkeen hospital could be so, so busy.

Ambulances coming and going.

Blue lights spinning and flashing.

Sirens blaring.

And one day there, you happened to pause. You looked at one ambulance winding its way to the building.

No lights; no siren. You paused and looked.

And you told me that ambulance had held your lifeless son.

He had drowned in Tramore just an hour earlier.

And you watched that ambulance.

And we thought in that clichèd way you do: little did you know.

And I cursed the God of Coincidences.

***************************************

Now I leaf through the death notices

And your bespectacled face stares out at me.

Your death is acknowledged by your loved ones

As they lament their loss.

My fervent hope is that you are at peace.

You have grasped your lovely son to your arms

And you walk the verdant hills of Heaven.

Together.

Always.

RIP my friend.

Depth

I have no truck with the shallow pool

That barely hides grit and half-life.

Give me deep refreshing pools

Encased by age-old cliff face;

Where laughter echoes

And love basks on its shimmering plane.

Common Knowledge

I don’t wear my glasses so I won’t see you.

Then, I won’t see you looking at me

And seeing how I am ashamed

Of what I didn’t do with my life.

I know that you know that I know

I can’t live with myself.

It’s common knowledge.

Progress?

Clockwise from top left-hand corner: Eoghan Murphy, Minister and TD; Noel Browne, deceased, doctor, former Minister of Health and TD; Dr. Vincent Barry, Cork-born chemist.

In 21st Century Ireland Minister Eoghan Murphy is a fortunate young man having been born into a comfortable middle-class family with access to the best education money can buy. He is a proven political operator getting himself elected to our parliament and spearheading the campaign that led his great friend, Dr. Leo Varadkar to the top of Fine Gael.

Noel Browne – over 70 years ago – helped eradicate TB from Ireland, a disease that was killing 10,000 people a year in Dublin alone.

Professor Vincent Barry developed a drug that has proved a massive boon in helping to eliminate Hansen’s Disease aka Leprosy. A debilitating disorder, like TB, it was the AIDS of its time.

Barry and Browne came from humble backgrounds. Arguably, they changed the world.

Why is it that Murphy, alongside his colleagues and friends, cannot eradicate homelessness and build decent affordable homes for our citizens?

Why is it that someone who has been given so much, to date, has returned so little?

Bill Gates’ Advice @twitter

The God of Coincidences.

You told me you were a cleaner in Ardkeen hospital.

One of the many parts of your life that you revealed.

Your husband was a security man.

I knew him and he looked tired and sad.

Then you told me about how Ardkeen hospital could be so, so busy.

Ambulances coming and going.

Blue lights spinning and flashing.

Sirens blaring.

And one day there, you happened to pause. You looked at one ambulance winding its way to the building.

No lights; no siren. You paused and looked.

And you told me that ambulance had held your lifeless son.

He had drowned in Tramore just an hour earlier.

And you watched that ambulance.

And we thought in that clichèd way you do: little did you know.

And I cursed the God of Coincidences.

Ailie MacAdam

Ailie MacAdam is a remarkable person. In this 30 minute interview, she recalls, when as a child, how she loved building things, no more so than with her father when they built boats together. Turn the pages of the calendar and having qualified as a chemical engineer she switched to civil engineering and worked on giant engineering projects such as the Big Dig in Massachusetts and the world-renowned St.Pancras’ Station rejuvenation in London.

I am always marvelled by the feats of engineering – the building of bridges, roads and all the various infrastructure we may take for granted; from the marvels of Manhattan skyscrapers to European cathedrals. All overseen by humans, who happened to like fixing things and endowed with prodigious talent.

Writing

The pen lies firmly between thumb and forefinger,

The empty page awaits the uncertain stroke.

A sigh, a glance – a dip to the pot and the alchemy begins.

Pause now.

A thesaurus is lifted and thumbed anew.

Darting, glancing, and leafing through the lavish pages,

The swish of rice paper whispers thoughts, to-ing and fro-ing

‘til the closing covers salute the word – an air of

gratitude and relief permeate the writing space.

The ritual continues – no rhythm, no rhyme.

The syntax of words across a page lie dormant.

They may awaken once more –

In the heart of the one who cares to read and listen.

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