I live in Dublin, Ireland. Sometimes. Most times I live in my head, quite unaware of my surroundings – if you know what I mean… If you succeed in tracking Sean Walsh, please let me know, ok? I've been searching for him for years…
The weekend we took off for a break,
leaving her in charge…
Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth
and her promising she’d lock up,
switch on the alarm,
share with Ciara in Carsons
until we got back?
Sure we were hardly gone –
treading Friday afternoon traffic –
when she was on the phone,
ringing round, spreading the word:
Jenny’s got a free gaffe…
‘Back that Sunday evening.
Return to hearth, home – oh, no?!
Jenny in her room at the
top of the stairs –
dreading the Yale key turning…
the front door… opening, closing.
The deafening silence as we stood
in the hall, the penny dropping…
The hurt, disappointment, let-down…
The creepy-crawly sensation of intruders
‘been and gone:
from kitchen to bathroom,
fridge to attic…
stale cigarette smoke…
empty bottles… broken glass.
And worse by far – broken promises…
Anger, then. Rising to rage.
In my voice as I called up the stairway:
“Jenny! Come down here this minute!..”
Then quietly, Ann at my elbow:
“She’s only twelve…Far too young to –
We were wrong to go off and leave her…
We’re to blame – not her, still a child…”
Sean checking… ‘reducing to simmer.
‘Not the first time she had come
between Dad and daughter…
July 30, 2019