I'll never forget the day I died. Define death? When you lose your last breath, when your soul and body split?
My final breath was drawn on a winter afternoon on Patricks street, Cork 1919. The air was cold and unforgiving for those unfortunates that lay in rags begging. I felt sorry for them, every time I saw a homeless person I always stopped, sat down and had a fag with them. My mother once told me if you give them money they run off and spend it on drink, which coincidentally was why they were there in the first place. So I would sit and have a chat I know if I was in their situation and someone offered me a fag I would be more then delighted. Today I was out of fags and the money in my pocket was to be spent on milk for a cup of tea at home with mam. I spend a lot of my time in her house since John left. The bed was too spacious at home and everything reminded me of him. As I fought my way past the faceless crowds in to O'Mallys shop I was glad of the heat within. Straight to the milk up to the counter a quick in and out job I was in no form for conversation I needed some time to myself my head wasn't right lately. Something caught my eye in the news stand, those eyes I've seen them before. They were the eyes I've woken up to for the past 3 years, the ones that gave me looks of disapproval when I smoked out the window in the bedroom and the ones that filled with tears the last time I saw them.
Define death?
Because every breath I've breathed since that moment has not been as sweet or as rewarding. Whatever soul was attached to my body had left by the time the title reached my curious gaze.
Death is not painful, for me it is the start of me finding my life again. Finding John.
Let me know what ye think should I carry on writing or is a lost cause?
No comments:
Post a Comment