fit a bed and a wardrobe, but for years it was my whole world. My only personal place to think and dream, to cry and laugh and wait until I became old enough to finally do all the things I wanted to do. My only space in the world then, and my only space now, at thirty-three. Who knew I’d find myself back here again without any of the things I’d yearned for, and, even worse, still yearning for them? Not a member of the Cure or married to Robert Smith. No baby and no husband. The wallpaper is floral and wild; completely inappropriate for a place of rest. Millions of tiny brown flowers clustered together with tiny splashes of faded green stalks. No wonder I’d covered them with posters. The carpet is brown with light brown swirls, stained from spilled perfume and makeup. The old and faded brown leather suitcases still lie on top of the wardrobe, gathering dust since Mum died. Dad never goes anywhere—a life without Mum, he decided long ago, is enough of a journey for him.
The duvet cover is the newest addition to the room. New as in over ten years old; Mum purchased it when my room became the guest room. I moved out to live with Kate a year before she died, and I wish every day since that I hadn’t, all those precious days of t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 9 1
not waking up to hear her long yawns turn into songs, to hear her talking to herself as she listened to Gay Byrne’s radio show. She loved Gay Byrne; her sole ambition in life was to meet him. The closest she got was when she and Dad got tickets to sit in the audience of The Late Late Show ; she spoke about it for years. I think she had a thing for him. Dad hated him. I think he knew about her thing.
He likes to listen to him now, though, whenever he’s on. I think Gay Byrne reminds Dad of time spent with Mum, as though when he hears Gay Byrne’s voice, he hears Mum’s instead. When she died, Dad surrounded himself with all the things she adored. He put Gay on the radio every morning, watched Mum’s television shows, bought her favorite biscuits even though he didn’t enjoy them. He liked to see them on the shelf when he opened the cupboard, liked to see her magazines beside his newspaper. He liked her slippers staying beside her armchair by the fire. He liked to remind himself that his entire world hadn’t fallen apart. Sometimes we need all the glue we can get, just to hold ourselves together.
At sixty-five years old, Dad was too young to lose his wife. At twenty-three, I was too young to lose my mother. At fifty-five she shouldn’t have lost her life, but cancer, undetected until far too late, stole it from her and us all. Dad had married late in life for his generation, and he always says he passed more days of his life waiting for Mum than actually being with her, but that every second spent looking for her and, eventually, remembering her, was worth it for all the moments in between.
Mum never met Conor, so I don’t know whether she would have liked him, though she would have been too polite to have shown it if she didn’t. Mum loved all kinds of people, but particularly those with high spirit and energy, people who lived and exuded that life. Conor is pleasant. Always just pleasant. Never overexcited. Never, in fact, excited at all. Just pleasant, which is 9 2 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
simply another word for nice. Marrying a nice man gives you a nice marriage, but never anything more. And nice is okay when it’s among other things, but never when it stands alone. Dad would talk to anyone anywhere and not have a feeling about them one way or another. The only negative thing he ever said about Conor was “What kind of a man likes tennis ?” A football man, Dad had spat the word out as though it had dirtied his mouth. Our failure to produce a child didn’t do much to sway Dad’s opinion. He blamed it on the little white tennis shorts Conor sometimes wore, whenever pregnancy test after pregnancy test failed to show blue. I know he
The duvet cover is the newest addition to the room. New as in over ten years old; Mum purchased it when my room became the guest room. I moved out to live with Kate a year before she died, and I wish every day since that I hadn’t, all those precious days of t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 9 1
not waking up to hear her long yawns turn into songs, to hear her talking to herself as she listened to Gay Byrne’s radio show. She loved Gay Byrne; her sole ambition in life was to meet him. The closest she got was when she and Dad got tickets to sit in the audience of The Late Late Show ; she spoke about it for years. I think she had a thing for him. Dad hated him. I think he knew about her thing.
He likes to listen to him now, though, whenever he’s on. I think Gay Byrne reminds Dad of time spent with Mum, as though when he hears Gay Byrne’s voice, he hears Mum’s instead. When she died, Dad surrounded himself with all the things she adored. He put Gay on the radio every morning, watched Mum’s television shows, bought her favorite biscuits even though he didn’t enjoy them. He liked to see them on the shelf when he opened the cupboard, liked to see her magazines beside his newspaper. He liked her slippers staying beside her armchair by the fire. He liked to remind himself that his entire world hadn’t fallen apart. Sometimes we need all the glue we can get, just to hold ourselves together.
At sixty-five years old, Dad was too young to lose his wife. At twenty-three, I was too young to lose my mother. At fifty-five she shouldn’t have lost her life, but cancer, undetected until far too late, stole it from her and us all. Dad had married late in life for his generation, and he always says he passed more days of his life waiting for Mum than actually being with her, but that every second spent looking for her and, eventually, remembering her, was worth it for all the moments in between.
Mum never met Conor, so I don’t know whether she would have liked him, though she would have been too polite to have shown it if she didn’t. Mum loved all kinds of people, but particularly those with high spirit and energy, people who lived and exuded that life. Conor is pleasant. Always just pleasant. Never overexcited. Never, in fact, excited at all. Just pleasant, which is 9 2 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
simply another word for nice. Marrying a nice man gives you a nice marriage, but never anything more. And nice is okay when it’s among other things, but never when it stands alone. Dad would talk to anyone anywhere and not have a feeling about them one way or another. The only negative thing he ever said about Conor was “What kind of a man likes tennis ?” A football man, Dad had spat the word out as though it had dirtied his mouth. Our failure to produce a child didn’t do much to sway Dad’s opinion. He blamed it on the little white tennis shorts Conor sometimes wore, whenever pregnancy test after pregnancy test failed to show blue. I know he
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