When Irish Eyes are Smiling

In the lilt of Irish laughter, you can hear the angels sing.

It’s been twenty-two years since I’ve heard your laugh.

The big one. The booming outrageous laugh. The one that started deep in your chest and ricocheted off the back of your tongue and seemed to ride every available sound wave, filling a space. That one. I miss it. Every now and then I think I hear it. Faint and lingering. Distant. Haunting.

It’s been two hundred and sixty-four months since I’ve heard your laugh.

Your silent laugh, when you laughed so hard no sound could escape. You would sit there, shaking and turning colors. Strangers thought you were in distress. Remember when they stopped “Shear Madness” because someone in the cast thought you were having a heart attack? We had to explain – because you couldn’t pull your shit together – that you were just thoroughly enjoying the show and to please continue.

It’s been one thousand one hundred and forty-eight weeks since I’ve heard your voice.

All of your voices. The loud and the soft. The happy and the sad. The merry and the mad. Mercurial I think would best describe you. Quick to anger, quick to laugh, quick to smile. I miss our phone calls and our walks. Our arguments and our jokes. I miss hearing you call me Blondie. And Charlie. I think we all miss that.

It’s been eight thousand and thirty-six days since I’ve heard your voice.

Well your whistle, really. I’ve not managed to find anyone else that can whistle like you. Birds envied you. Although I do remember you telling two of your grandsons that you learned to whistle in the war with South America so you could communicate with the birds that helped you be a spy. Seriously, one of your better attempts I must say and those two boys believed every single thing that came out of your mouth.

It’s been one hundred and ninety-two thousand eight hundred and forty hours since you left us.

I was telling someone about your funeral recently and how wonderful it was. I know that sounds weird but you would have loved it. At the wake, the funeral director had to ask people to leave so the folks waiting outside in the cold could come in and pay their respects. But that’s not the best part. The best part was at church the morning of your funeral. It was a beautiful sunny March day. Marie wanted to punch Jane in the face because she was being such a whiny bitch.

Mark gave the eulogy and it was fantastic. He closed by talking about how much you loved Toora, Loora, Loora and that he promised you that he’d make everyone sing it at your funeral. Well, he was as good as his word. At the end of the Mass, he started singing and it slowly built. Shaky, since most of us were crying. But by the time we hit the chorus the entire congregation was rocking as we walked behind you.

I was getting ready to say good-bye to John and Helen since they had only planned on coming to the church. As I was thanking them for coming, John stopped me and said, “This is the best funeral I’ve ever attended. We’re coming to the cemetery since I don’t want to miss what happens next. Helen, this is exactly what I want when I go.”

It was a fitting tribute. I’m never sad when I think about your funeral. I do remember the crushing grief as I sat in the pew but more than that, I remember the hope and the love and the joy of a life well-lived.

It’s been six hundred ninety-four million two hundred twenty-four seconds since you left us and there are days that I have felt every single one of them.

I miss you Dad.

Crazy Bitches are Crazy

So, we had some snow. Power is finally restored and the kids are back to school. The roads are still a little dodgy especially in Boston where some multi-lane roads are down to one lane. For the most part, folks are still working under the “We’re all in this together!” banner. That banner, however, is starting to wear a bit thin.

This morning I was driving Emma to school. Normally it takes me about 12-15 minutes. Today it took close to 45. Not getting into too much detail but so y’all can try to understand where we were, I drive down Center Street, through Hyde Square, make a left at Walden Street, right on Health and take Terrace around Mission Hill.  Seems a weird way to get to Fenway but it really is the fastest way in the morning.

Jackson Square is a hot mess. What are normally three lanes of traffic is being squeezed into one and a half, and that’s being generous. This morning traffic was backed up to Sunnyside. Not backed up enough to turn around and try a different way but backed up enough. People were being pretty considerate of lights and not blocking intersections so it was all good.

Well it was until Pedestrian Woman! decided she was going to take a stand for pedestrians everywhere. So, she’s standing on the corner of Walden Street heading toward Hyde Square when she steps out from behind an eleven foot snow bank into the cross walk and then yells at the car in the cross walk since she, Pedestrian Woman!, has the right-of-way.

Lady in the car flips her off and Pedestrian Woman! wasn’t having any of that nonsense. So she starts yelling at the driver. Driver yells back and then this crazy bitch (Pedestrian Woman!) jumps in front of the car and starts taking pictures of the driver and her license plate. Swear to God! Now I’m right behind the car that is being stopped which means that I’m now blocking on-coming traffic. So – of course – I put my car in park, open the door and get out. I tell Pedestrian Woman! to get out of the damned street before something bad happens. She looks at me and says “She told me to call the cops and that’s what I’m going to do!” I look at her and say “Seriously? You need to get out of the street. Now.” I get back in my car since I naturally assume she’ll listen to me.

Did she? No she did not. Instead she doubled-down on her crazy-ass strategy and starts yelling at the driver again and taking more pictures. Yes she did.

Once again, I do the whole secure the car and get back out. “Seriously lady. Get out of the god-damn street. I’m late. Other people are late. And you need to take whatever issue you have and MOVE THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY!” By this point about eleven people are out of their cars yelling at Pedestrian Woman! and countless others are beeping and yelling shit out the windows.

The driver in the front car turns to me and says “I didn’t tell her to call the cops, I told her to watch where she was going.” I reply, “Crazy bitches are crazy.” And we both have a laugh.

At this point, the passenger in the first car gets out and is starting to collect witness names and numbers so if the cops get involved she has what she needs to make her case. Pedestrian Woman! starts to argue with her about what’s she doing when passenger goes full-on crazy Spanish lady on her. Shouting and cussing in Spanish, arms waving. If you have never before witnessed a Spanish-lady verbal smack down you have not really lived. I suggest you put it on your bucket list.

Finally, Pedestrian Woman! looks around and you can see realization dawn that she has created a situation that is about to get all kinds of ugly so finally – finally – she does the sensible thing and just walks away.

I get back in the car and Emma looks at me and says, “What was her problem?”

With a straight face I replied, “She had the right-of-way.”

Restless Chapter 2

Aiden sits patiently on the park bench watching the birds at the river's edge. His phone buzzes. He removes the phone from the pocket of his hoodie and flips it open. There's a single text message: done. He stands, deletes the text, throws the phone into the river, and heads for home.

Fergus is waiting for him when he arrives.

“We’re leaving in an hour. Be ready.” Fergus growls. “I’ve been waiting long enough. An opportunity like this may never happen again.”

Aiden walks past his brother, ignoring him. Fergus settles deeper into the couch and puts his feet on the table. His black motorcycle boots are well-worn but clean. He runs his hands through his wavy black hair and asks, “Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, I heard you, Fergus. You don’t need to worry about me. I know what needs to be done.” I hate the living room, mostly because that’s where Fergus spends all of his time but also because it’s depressing. Fergus’ favorite spot is a secondhand couch faded to a dull brown, the original pattern barely discernible in the low light. In front of the couch sits a battered table covered in old cigarette burns. An overhead fixture tarnished with grime and a decade’s worth of bug carcasses casts a weak glow. Adding to the interior gloom is the dark cloth that covers the large front window.

I hurry upstairs to pack. I reach under the bed and pull out an old backpack. I throw in my clothes and, just like that, I’m done. I have no posters or pictures on the walls. Nothing to show that I’ve called this room home for the last few years. I’m not really surprised that I feel nothing about leaving. I’d bet all my money that no one at school will even notice I’m gone.

I take one last look around, grab my backpack, and head downstairs.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

Read the first part here