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| The Graveside | |
| By briann | ||||||||||||||||||
| 17 November 2006 | ||||||||||||||||||
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Have been writing now for a few years. I usually read my work at small meetings of writers. Having an Irish accent here in Australia seems to lend a certain charm to the tales, at least that's what I'm told. Hope you like this one. Brian The Graveside “I think it’s time for a drink.” I couldn’t believe he said that. “But were on our way to the funeral, Dad.” I said immediately looking across at the old man by my side. “It’s half ten and we’re nowhere near there.” “What’s a funeral without a few drops of drink?” he said with that sly smirk that I loved. My mother’s early morning request to take care of him had, once again, to be reinterpreted. We stopped at the town of Athlone, half way to the West. We drank at Mulligan’s Public Bar, not too much, just a few whiskies and a chaser. It was almost mid-day when we set off towards the West again. My cousin was being buried that day. He had being part of an argument which ended in a fight outside a pub in London. He had lost, lost dearly. The Coroner had given the verdict of ‘death by misadventure’. He died in England and was now to be buried in Ireland outside his home town, Sligo. We arrived at the church. It seemed as if the sea was every where, crashing at the rocks below us; the Atlantics Ocean’s roars surrounded us. After a dull Mass we walked from the church directly west towards the sea and cliffs and graveyard. The crosses and weather beaten headstones seemed to mock our new sorrow. We stood around the freshly dug grave. I could see the blue sky and the seagulls above the heads of five brothers. His white headed father, taller than them all, stood erect, spoke bravely of his son, and then shed tears like a child. The clay hit the coffin with an empty thud, the emptiness of a life lost, a young lost life. The circle of tall men tightened around the plot. My father and I were engulfed by the sorrow and pain of these men. Live standing stones of manhood. Grieving stones turned now to clay. Tears and curses, oaths and profanities, crying and cursing, they let their anguish flow, openly and freely. The deep dark grave accepted all. I looked across at my father and he, he smiled at me strangely, not a smile of joy, but, I thought, one of love. That evening we said goodbye and left the grieving family. We stopped, once again in Athlone and enjoyed our few drinks, but somehow it was different. I returned to my parents’ house and my dad slowly left the car. I refused my Mother invitation to a cup of tea and began to leave. I kissed my Mother and, my Father in his usual ‘Man’s Manner,’ shook my hand, but, just as I was outside the house, he held me, stooped and kissed my cheek. The door shut and I could hear my Mother say ‘what did you do that for?’ but couldn’t hear the low reply. My cheeks were still wet from tears as I started the car and headed home. t
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