|Three Points of View (standard:drama, 732 words)|
|Author: Cyrano||Added: Mar 02 2012||Views/Reads: 1972/885||Story 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, Click here to read the rest of this story (31 more lines)
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