When All I Can Imagine Are Hands

I skipped over to the rest room just in time to hear the deejay announce - Happy Birthday to Jennifer...oops, she has gone to the rest room, why did she have to do that now?

I was at the Attic with Mary and Addy. We had opened a bottle of Annie's Lane. It was not humming (people were staying at home, all set for the trouble of the day to come) and the lights were muted, as was the conversation.

People swirled in and out as Annie's Lane trickled into my veins and made itself felt (incidentally, I managed to get a stash. A guy from some wine cellar-type shop just called to ask me how many bottles I want - he is selling it at less than half the price - woo hoo!).

I dug into my bag for a book of Irish poetry and made Addy and Mary listen as I declaimed at the top of my voice - let everything that is to fall, fall, beginning with tired love.

Addy liked the poem but Mary was all for something less depressing, so I recited The Olympians (at the back of my mind, those words continued to resound ...because you are not here this dishevelled bed holds no dreams)

Mum called just before midnight. Then Jackie and Simon. Then Julie. (The family except for the Chubster and the Dadda-man, basically)

And Jairus smiled at me from across the smoke and held out his hand.

Come dance with me.

So I did.

And I closed my eyes and laid my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his now-still heart.

The smoke cleared. Mary was smiling. Addy was laughing. I was reading a poem about Lobsang's last wish.

And somewhere behind me, Jairus gave a little wave and moved out into the whiteness.