It’s my birthday today, and I want to share this short story with my dear readers.
It is Jim Brennan's birthday. He wakens on this humid August morning, startled by birdsong echoing across the garden outside and, for a long time, he stares in confused remembrance towards where the swelling orange sun is burning the faded floral wallpaper across from his tumbled bed.
'It's my birthday,' he finally realises. 'I'm seventy-six today. Where did it go?'
Jim walks to the hall and picks up bills and ads that promise discounts and holidays abroad. Jim has never been out of Ireland, never crossed the sea. His tired eyes examine the envelopes at arm's length. There are no birthday cards to sigh over - these days who would know?
'Time flies,' he says.
He's talking to himself most days - who else will listen? Up in the still shadowed parlour a clock chimes the hour and Jim rises tiredly and prepares to face the day. When he turns on the wireless the news assaults his soul. The media loves abusing the innocent with their excited updates and urgently breaking stories. It was different back then. It seemed quieter and children could play on the streets. Back when.
What a world!
Jim swings open the front door and sees Ellen Kelly stands there, smiling like sunlight.
'Happy birthday, Jim.'
No longer astonished, Jim smiles back and sighs because Ellen isn't really there.
Ellen Kelly, fourteen last week. He's been seeing Ellen a lot lately. She walked behind him all the way to the hushed library yesterday and when he sat to rest in Carolyn Park she was standing under a tree, waiting in its shade.
'I didn't forget,' Ellen says.
'I know, I know.'
'Will you come out to play?'
'I can't Ellen. You're dead.'
The sun slides down the street and settles on Jim's house and Ellen fades like a startled shadow.
'Poor Ellen,' Jim whispers sadly. 'My poor dead darling.'
Clock chime. Ding. One. Ding. Two. Et Cetera.
Jim struggles from a dream speaking her name into the listening shadows.
'Ellen?
The pitch dark shadows silent as lovewords from dead mouths. Marble graveyard lips, cold as stone. Ivy and moss. Memories haunting his present. Jim shivers and steps into the window sun. Rubs his thick veined hands. Prays. Then he makes lunch. Tomatoes and ham. He dreams the evening away - half out of life. On the radio a woman sings Four Last Songs. You don't have to know the language.
Such sweet sorrow. Who said that?
Later, a seat in the garden looking towards the singing sunset. There is nothing to see except blackbirds and sparrows; nothing to hear except the noise of butterflies' wings.
Even later, the clock in the parlour chimes twelve heartbeats. Night comes hot and bothered.
Climbing into an empty bed, Jim turns off the sidelight and watches the shadows huddling against the floral wallpaper. Stars look in at his greying face. A hot August moon in the open window. Soft as silence, quiet as apple blossoms falling, gentle as Ellen's dimpled smile. Ellen's same sad glad smile standing there by his bed. Faithful Ellen, waiting.
He says 'I can play now, Ellen, If you like. I'm finally, properly dead.'
'I'm glad. I've been waiting for such a long time!'
Jim rising from his bed, leaving his seventy-six years between the laundered sheets. Soaring through the moonlight with Ellen in his arms, the pair of them shooting like comets into Eternity while the clock in the parlour stops.
Forever and forever.
pss: its good to be home
