Reflections on an Irish Funeral
Reflections on a Dublin Funeral
By Jack Connor.
They both listen intently in the half-light at the foot of the stairs, holding their breadth and straining their ears. On the upstairs landing, a roar of a cry is let out from behind a bedroom door.
“Oh God take me! Sweet Jesus take me now”
I sit in the kitchen half afraid to move. I see their shadows through the mottled pane of glass that makes up the upper half of the kitchen door and hear their whispers. I dare not go out to them, though I am paining with curiosity. Finally, I think of an excuse. I tip toe cautiously from the chair on which I have been sitting, fidgeting for a half hour, cross the room and easing down on the creaking door handle, which only serves to break their concentration and begin to open the door ever so slowly. I barely have the door open when it’s pushed in on me by my mother who ushers me back into the room.
“I told you to stay in the kitchen”, she snaps. “Sit there (pointing at the chair I was previously glued to) and be still. You’ll only upset your father”.
With that, my father comes into the kitchen with a hung drawn look about him.
“He’s quiet now”, he says, as if some peace had finally come with the night. Sitting down at the kitchen table he stairs at his empty tea cup muttering in a lowly voice;
“Is there any more tea in the pot?” but my mother is already standing over him about to fill it up.
My mother’s attendance to him in this way is instinctive. She always pre-empts his need for tea, like keeping an eye on an oil gauge so that the machine runs efficiently delivering the tasks it was designed for once fuelled with tea. Even when he is doing odd jobs around the house, come mid-morning or mid-afternoon, the tea arrives. Even when he's on his feet all day working as a barber, the flask of tea (sugared and milked) is provided to get him through the day. But it will take a lot more than tea to settle him this time. His gaze now seams to peer into a place
By Jack Connor.
They both listen intently in the half-light at the foot of the stairs, holding their breadth and straining their ears. On the upstairs landing, a roar of a cry is let out from behind a bedroom door.
“Oh God take me! Sweet Jesus take me now”
I sit in the kitchen half afraid to move. I see their shadows through the mottled pane of glass that makes up the upper half of the kitchen door and hear their whispers. I dare not go out to them, though I am paining with curiosity. Finally, I think of an excuse. I tip toe cautiously from the chair on which I have been sitting, fidgeting for a half hour, cross the room and easing down on the creaking door handle, which only serves to break their concentration and begin to open the door ever so slowly. I barely have the door open when it’s pushed in on me by my mother who ushers me back into the room.
“I told you to stay in the kitchen”, she snaps. “Sit there (pointing at the chair I was previously glued to) and be still. You’ll only upset your father”.
With that, my father comes into the kitchen with a hung drawn look about him.
“He’s quiet now”, he says, as if some peace had finally come with the night. Sitting down at the kitchen table he stairs at his empty tea cup muttering in a lowly voice;
“Is there any more tea in the pot?” but my mother is already standing over him about to fill it up.
My mother’s attendance to him in this way is instinctive. She always pre-empts his need for tea, like keeping an eye on an oil gauge so that the machine runs efficiently delivering the tasks it was designed for once fuelled with tea. Even when he is doing odd jobs around the house, come mid-morning or mid-afternoon, the tea arrives. Even when he's on his feet all day working as a barber, the flask of tea (sugared and milked) is provided to get him through the day. But it will take a lot more than tea to settle him this time. His gaze now seams to peer into a place