AQUILA
You said ‘Look, it’s in this one.’ Sticky page, dusty album. ‘That’s Flaherty’s, the sweet shop, is that you?’ Mophaired, short trousers, long socks, silent Sunday shoes. ‘The funeral directors was next to that’. You said, ‘No, the butchers is there. On the other side’. I said ‘I know I know, of
course I know.’ Next to the butchers, a square on the Monopoly board of childhood nobody ever bought: the village Funeral Directors. Children walking past to the bakers for yeast, warm in the hand to bake bread, the bottom half of the window frosted for eternity and the top half too high for ten year olds to see through. Inscribed in gold gothic, Death’s company name. Death. Stuffed under the cushions of parables. Colder than gravestones’ inscriptions in the church at the end of the lane. Death, a photograph of an ivy leaf propped on an empty silver flower holder. Death. Is for little boys in school caps who do not believe. They get left behind. Death is a threat. Godalmings and Sons never made any effort to decorate the window. On rainy days it reflected the flashes of the crossing beacons. 3 seconds left. Made it. See?
30
And now, a lifetime later, after holding the shell in hospital sheets, leaving the ward one last time, walking across that same road, to make an appointment for Dad. 1130: Meet Your Funeral Director. You had not wanted to go, though you said you would, if I wanted. I said no, don’t: the Easter parade is important for her. You said ‘What about Peter? Would he go?’ Peter Peter Simon Peter bread and two fishes on the colour plate. Bible for Children. I’m alright. Meet the other brothers. Each get out of separate cars, each holding Costa cups of separate silence. Beacons flash seconds. Pause outside. Check watches - 15 minutes early. The reflections of the beacons in the window. Together push the door. Jangle. The door we had never thought we would open.
