The parade in my town starts in just over an hour.
We never go any more.
We only ever really went on account of the boys. When
they were very little, they liked the tractors and were scared of the clowns,
in equal measure. Then, when they got a bit older, they were required to march with
their schoolmates and toot out 'The Minstrel Boy' on their tin whistles. A task they
never really enjoyed.
Sometimes, things happen very quickly. In a flash,
everything can change and it’s suddenly a whole new world. But, more often than
not, things happen slowly and subtly. So much so that they sometimes seem to
have already happened for quite some time before you fully realise that they’ve
happened at all.
Our boys don’t live at home anymore. They aren’t here.
We don’t have to argue gently about the pros and cons of parading in the warm
drizzle. We don’t have to struggle to find some tufts of shamrock for the
lapels. We don’t have to try to throw some form of logic onto what is, let’s
face it, a generally shapeless day. It’s just us two here now and we can do
whatever the hell we want.
Today, our eldest son will meet some of his friends
and plan next week’s excursion to London and next month’s excursion to Japan.
He will enjoy a day off from his responsible government job.
Today, our younger son will join his two bands on
stage at the Windmill in Brixton. He will enjoy a day off from his work in the
very heart of the West End and he will doubtless play his heart out, as he
usually does.
No parades required.
How did it happen? When was the moment when they no
longer lived here anymore? Of course, there wasn’t one. It was a gentle fade
from one thing to another. First university, then fewer and fewer runs home, new
jobs, new places. Gentle but firm, that’s how it all plays out.
And it’s wonderful, of course. They are their own men
now. If Patricia and I were to be hit by a bus later today they would be sad,
of course, but they would be okay. No longer helpless mites but, instead, grown
men who find their way in the world. It’s great and Patricia and I, avoiding
all the buses that we can, are having a lovely time in our own time and space again.
But the bedrooms down at the beginning of the hall are
pretty quiet now. Nobody will need a lift home at some silly hour of the
morning. There are brief moments of dizzy disbelief, that the pair of lads who
were so well guarded and so well-tended within these walls are now out in the
world and reliant effortlessly on only themselves.
It’s all good.
It’s Saint Patrick’s Day.
The parade in my town starts in just over an hour.
Maybe we’ll just go down and have a little look.
3 comments:
Lovely stuff, Ken. Us empty nesters know how it feels though, like you, not when it happens. The house gets quieter, more still, the laundry only needs to be done once a week....the world becomes shapeless.
I never had the family thing with my daughter. She was two when my wife left me and so I was robbed of all that. And I do look at it that way. That was not part of the deal. A kid is for life, not two days a fortnight and only that because a judge rules it. If I sound bitter it's because I am. Of course, of her own free will, my daughter moved in with me when she was nearly eighteen so I did get a taste but it wasn't long before she'd found a flat and moved out. At first we'd still see her three times a week but then weekly, monthly, quarterly, tri-annually. She has a good job and I'm so proud of the progress she's made and the way she's handled her life but I do miss her. That said I also value my privacy. I like that it's just me and Carrie rattling around here, living out our small lives. COVID was the game-changer. Neither of us ever caught it but we got used to being alone and found we were content, just the two of us. I like having lunch with my daughter, touching base, getting my hugs and a kiss, but that's enough. She's a grown woman, in her mid-forties, and she deserves as much freedom as life can afford her.
Beautiful writing, Ken.
And in a few more years, your sons might be bringing their kiddies to the house they grew up in.
To see the grandparents. And maybe, just maybe, watch the parade on St Patrick’s Day.
Post a Comment