Epitaph . . . for your birthday
Epitaphby Merrit Malloy When I dieGive what’s left of me awayTo childrenAnd old men that wait to die.And if you …
Epitaphby Merrit Malloy When I dieGive what’s left of me awayTo childrenAnd old men that wait to die.And if you …
It is Mother’s Day in Ireland. I am hoping the flowers arrived and that the florist remembered to write on the card, “I’ll see you next weekend.” It’s been a long three years, the pandemic and its attendant restrictions keeping us apart. As my brother – only 250 odd miles away from her – reminded me, “this thing has made a mockery of distance. I’m only a few hours drive away but I might as well be on the moon.”
The bare bulb, a scatter of nails, Shelved timber, glinting chisels: In a shed of corrugated iron Eric Dawson stoops …
The girl with her head in the clouds should never have doubted the man who kept her feet on the ground too. Not for a second.
All that’s left of him now is love – to give away. I am walking on air.