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Three Points of View (standard:drama, 732 words)
Author: CyranoAdded: Mar 02 2012Views/Reads: 1879/829Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A short flash fiction showing three Points of View.
 



Time Away 

After spending an hour at the Guinness factory I hopped on the bus again
and got off at the Temple Bar area, popping up my umbrella against the 
lightly falling rain. The directions have me crossing over the River 
Liffey, down Westmoreland Street and right onto Fishamble Street, 
number 47. Red brickwork frames the dark blue door, and holds the 
bronze polished name plate. I think what I got most in touch with after 
receiving the letters was the wound most of us suffer when we're 
growing up—that somehow in the course of even the most loving of 
parents' efforts to bring us up, who we really are gets ignored. I need 
to stand here, pause, gather my thoughts before tapping on that door. 

This morning I woke up and looked out my bedroom window, over the
Liffey, with small rain falling, and wondered if he would indeed come. 
He has promised so many times, but always something would come up. I 
imagined many times that he would come, be so close, be outside the 
door, just a tap away, but he never was. Happiness was meant to be more 
than momentary moments of completeness, and I recall how glorious those 
moments were; times when everything else felt removed. I've learned 
into my old age that contentment is more trustworthy. Yet, sat here, 
waiting for my mid-morning cup of tea, my digestive biscuit, and news 
about whether the home will receive its much needed funding, I do 
recall so many of the times my son brought happiness. The sweat, the 
trembling, jumping, squealing, of his childhood before the calling. Not 
everything is in its place in my world. I guess, finally, I have come 
to realize that happiness was an occasion rather than a state of being. 


“Here you go, Martha. My word, you look splendid this morning? Are you
expecting a visitor?” Trudy asks, tidy in her apron, pushing the tea 
tray between the several chairs scattered around the large room, 
according to like. Maureen's being closest to the window, always on the 
lookout for people on the outside world. Some leather, some reclining, 
some vacated by friends and warmed by newcomers. I smile without 
answer. 

Dougan Rafferty carries in his inside breast coat pocket several letters
from his mother. Most everyone one of them delivered to a different 
mailing address, but all of which had somehow caught up with him after 
he'd got out of prison; being found guilty for a bank hoist. He's 
managed, with the help of different friends, all with their own dubious 
backgrounds, to hide the reality from his now aging mother, who had 
gone through years not caring at all, to caring too much, and is now 
caring just the right way. 

Sitting in her favorite chair Martha holds her son's last mailed letter,
which she unfolds with gnarled and bony fingers. 

Dear Ma; 

How are you? I'm sorry my letters come so infrequently. I'm constantly
on the move, so please forgive me... 

Her hands tremble holding the page, tears so many times read, still
threaten to break forth. Between the lines her son is revealed, his 
efforts appreciated, his heart lying unconvincingly, his tongue locked 
in his mouth for twenty years. The priest had kept her informed. 

Another drop of rain hits me, baptizing and dissolving on my cheek,
waking me to this moment. I can turn away; never see the bleeding I've 
caused. I step up to the door, raise my hand...hanging there as if not 
wanting to...as if it were seized and pulled forward... 

Trudy responds to the tapping at the door. 

The page crumples closed in Martha's hand. 

“Please, come along inside. You're here for who?” It was the evening
Martha slept long, and gave up weeping. 

A week later Fishamble Retirement Home received a very large anonymous
donation accompanied by a Ray Bradbury Poem: 

Tread lightly to the music, 


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