Hit by the whiff of a half-cooked feast as I bound through the back door on the eve of it.
Back from childhood border crossings with my Da to pick a last minute gift for my Ma in exotic high street shops, in a city without a high street. Stopping off for chips doused in silence in the Strand Road Café before navigating friendly torch-lit interrogations on the way back through. Cockneyed requests for “drivers license please, Sir” followed further on by native demands to know if we’d “any goods to declare?”. Back from the yearly sore arse cultivated from sitting on bottles of Black Tower and Blue Nun. The height of sophistication for the discerning diner’s table. A table always cleared before dessert and the occasional arm-wrestling tournament. We lived in a developing county; the concentration distracted us from the central heating my Dad
was is fond of rationing.
Back after swearing blind I’d never go back. From the Dublin bus after the first semester on the brink of dropping out. Dropping down for a drink to the pub to re-unite with old classmates to commandeer our corner of it. Spotting yer man out of the corner of my eye; the later lighting-up together as good as being told to get your coat.
Back in the small hours and being woken up not long after by Bart Simpson ordering me to “Get up and get outta bed”; my Mother pissing herself laughing at the effect her present of a talking alarm clock was having on me. Inadvertently getting her back by accidentally leaving the sacred sprouts I’d been sent out for behind in the pub.
The Bart Simpson Alarm Clock. HiLARious.
Back all grown up but reverting to our bickering ways in the year 19…20..oh take your pick. Back to slammed doors and exploited windows of opportunity our parents threatened to put us out for even if we were in our
30s 20s. Maintaining a ceasefire for the duration of Top of the Pops before scrambling for the remote to prevent Mrs. Windsor from addressing the room.
Back-to-back films and phone-calls from far away relatives my parents hoped each other would answer. Reading back over wish lists of goals composed for the year ahead with cross-legged concentration alongside my best mate in my bedroom. Listing the qualities of our respective future partners through wild guesses of the other. Paring those down to a bare-boned gender preference by the age of 30
Back to the website booking page after being struck by a gnawing feeling as I smiled my way down Waterloo en route to the airport. The airport I had mistakenly booked to fly into instead of out from. Back eventually with relief to a livelier looking tree replacing the vague question mark the old single set of lights used to aptly resemble.
Putting back the cards my parents gave one another on the mantelpiece after reading. Hand-writing getting smaller, much like their frames. Closing over another card written to a wife, unable to reconcile herself to her new title.
Back for fewer days with each passing year. Escaping the resurrection of barren shelves and the unbearably empty nest feeling pervading the house on the day the decorations come down. Avoiding total recall of all those quiet tears my Mother struggled to hide after waving her boys back to college with a foiled turkey leg tucked in each bag. Reminding her to hang in till January 6th and the night we’ll have. On Women’s Christmas. Little Christmas. Nollaig na Mban. When she and I would traditionally leave the remaining fir to fend for themselves and trot out for dinner in smug satisfaction.
We’ll raise a glass of diluted orange juice again this Women’s Christmas. To celebrate our wee one’s birthday. A new memory on the horizon.