When I parked
my car, I saw a menacing young man, arms and neck covered with
tattoos, standing in the driveway. I knew I had the right house
because I had been here before, and it was the middle of the day, so
I took a deep breath, gave him a curt nod, and walked quickly to the
front door. The lady of the house let me in as always, and I spent
some time with her dying husband, and then sat and talked with her.
As I opened the door to leave, I felt myself tense; the man, with
his shaved head and surly expression, was still there, between the
front door and my car. Just then, the old lady said to me, 'oh
come and see my garage. My husband used to do all this work, but
he can't climb ladders and paint any more, so now my little one does
it for me,' and she beamed with pride at the man, her grandson. Her
“little one,” taller and broader than either of us. In a flash,
instead of the face of an angry, dangerous man, I saw the bored
expression of my own 7-year-old grandson, and tears burned my eyes.
3 comments:
I love these stories of your work, what a privlidge it is to be there at such a sacred time. There are massive traditions and rites around dying and waking/funerals in Ireland- and a tie when you meet al those far-flung family members who converge when someone passes. It's one of those things that I hope never changes about us, it (usually) gives huge peace to the family. I have been popping in and out, I check your to-do list everytime, and I laugh every time!!!!!!
A long time ago, my husband and I used to go on motorbike trips with some others, you know bikie types. Some of the men had tattoos and long beards, but these were just everyday people, kind and funny, and great company, nice that we are all different.
I totally agree with Emily: I love these stories of yours! Thanks for sharing.
"You shouldn´t judge the dog on his hair" is a norwegian saying. Looks funny when translated :-)
Post a Comment