Aindrias Séamus Ó Broin
It was no life of PI, although one could be deceived, if they took these facts and made them make believe.
I’d say it started with a rumour but that would not be true. It started in a little town as most good stories do.
A row of houses down one side of the road. It’s name etched in my mind like every story I have told.
A pub was around the corner, “The Golden Lion” was it’s name. Another at the other end who’s name was not the same.
Daylight brought the gobby lads and Kirby into play. The safety of community alive with light of day.
Darkness locked the doors where everyone seemed to hide. We locked away our fears from the noises left outside.
The hooligans brought havoc, fanatics at their best. More than once we took them in with knives still in their chests.
My story has begun as a three feet tall young lad. I dreamt to be a gardener like my super strong granddad.
It wasn’t meant to be as I watched his wife pass before. Gone was any trace of the man I’d known before.
I heard the music play as I’d listen every night. Beneath the sobs of sorry I pleaded, It’s alright.
We made a pact I wouldn’t share the tales that he had told. That he could trust the feeble mind of mine at nine years old.
Christmas came and what it held was not at all that clear. All we wanted was not there. No space for Christmas cheer.
Half a family rhyming like poetic injustice. We floated by like a paper that’s listless. Useful for nothing but sorrow filled witness.
We spoke of the future but not believe it we could. He couldn’t envision a life as he should. He tripped in the darkness an accidental nightmare and just like my Nan he no longer was there.
An egg cracked the silence or a heart or a soul. I couldn’t quite fathom but I wasn’t quite whole. A secret I promised I’d never quite share. Yet he wasn’t here and I wasn’t quite there.
© G.P Williamson 2017