On Crockadoon
I used to ask about his prefix - what made him ‘grand’ - and her cheeks would crease and laughter would pour in my direction. She told me it was simple. ‘Grand’ only meant ‘old’. And because it made her laugh, I liked to bring it up. But then, for a time, he was barely mentioned. Until one day, in late July, she told me he was gone. And I remember her cheeks creasing again; but this time, it was pain that poured; her eyes narrowed and skin glistened.
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Before he passed, we packed and drove to Crockadoon. The city had simmered that year - cloaked in viscous air that dragged at limbs. We drank cold tea and opened windows. But it was too much, and one morning she told me we were leaving.
Light had pooled, on that particular day, in the valleys of my bedroom curtains, and saturated them until they glowed. And as we left, something of that glow stayed with me; hovering in my vision, fixing itself with every blink to something new.
We arrived late, and Crockadoon was split by shade. The sunset tipped its rocky crenelations and cast, onto the fields below, a serrated edge. In the distance, the sea was feathered with spray. We followed the undulations that led to the old house and, at the gate, I got out and directed her down the driveway. For hours, we sat up and had little to say. But just before midnight she smiled and told me it was time for bed.
Days passed and we walked and swam and went into town. On Sunday, we sat through mass and spoke, afterwards, to a blur of faces. The air was cooler and it cooled our senses. She seemed hushed by the wind and the percolating rain. And in the evenings, as she read the paper, I would curl at her feet and listen to her murmur. But in her eyes I could see another horizon; a thought that she would not express.
It came one day when I least expected. The weather had changed and Crockadoon roared the arrival of rain. Bound indoors, we took turns reading passages of old books and drawing pictures of each other. Blanketed by the sound of the storm one evening, I left my bedroom and crept across the hallway. She was sat in the kitchen, slumped forward, poring over photographs. I lingered for a while, then turned to leave. But upon moving, she looked up and caught the reflection of my eyes in the window.
“Michael” she said.
I said nothing.
In the days that followed, the rain subsided and the air was dense with the smell of earth and leaves. As the house dried its floors became cool; its windows glazed with dew.
To escape the damp, she suggested we climb Crockadoon. And a day later, beneath a granite sky, we did. We curved and wound our way through gorse and shale, and she moved with slow intention. At the summit, the sea spread out like hammered glass. She closed her eyes, and for a moment I thought she might speak. But then she turned and smiled and Crockadoon spoke for her.