Love Cannot Be Imprisoned

After spending an hour at the Guinness factory, Danny hopped on the bus, getting off at the Temple Bar area, and popping up his umbrella against the lightly falling rain. He’d been given the directions, crossing over the River Liffey, down Westmoreland and turning right onto Fishamble Street, number 47. In the red brickwork were a dark blue door and a bronze polished name plate. After receiving the letters, Danny recalled the wound of growing up — that somehow in the course being raised by the most loving of parents, who he really got ignored. He stood at the door, pausing before knocking, gathering his thoughts. Earlier that morning, Emily Dougan, the eldest of Fishamble home’s guests, had to be retrieved several times from her wanderings to the bedroom window, which looked out over the Liffey, where she observed the small rain falling, and wondered if he would come. He had promised to do so many times, but always something came up. She had imagined that he would come, be so close, be right outside the window, tap on the door, but, no, he never came.

But Emily has learned in her old age that disappointment is more trustworthy. Yet, sat there, waiting for her mid-morning cup of tea, maybe a digestive biscuit, and hopefully some news about whether the Home would receive its much-needed funding to remain open. She was 87, and the idea of being moved after eleven years was a fearful contemplation. Sat in her chair she recalled the times her son brought great happiness. “Here you go, Emily. My word, you look splendid this morning? Are you expecting a visitor?” Trudy asked, tidy in her apron, wheeling the tea tray between scattered furniture. Emily smiled without answer. Dougan Rafferty had left prison carrying several letters in his inside breast coat pocket. Most everyone one of them delivered to a different mailing address and forwarded to the prison. He had somehow managed, with the help of different friends, all with their own dubious backgrounds, to hide the reality of his life from his aging mother. Emily reached into the drawer, and pulled out her son’s last mailed letter, which she unfolded 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 trembled, spiny fingers holding the page, so many times read, tears threatening to break forth. Between the lines her son was revealed, his efforts appreciated, his heart lying unconvincingly, his tongue locked in his mouth for seven years.

The priest had kept her informed. A large droplet of rain hit Dougan, falling from the door’s overhang, baptizing and dissolving on his cheek, and waking him to the moment. He can turn away; never see the critique of his actions, or he can step up to the door, raise his hand…see it hang there as if not wanting to…then seized and pulled forward onto the blue framed door… Trudy responded. “Please, come along inside. You’re here for who?”

That evening, Emily slept long and gave up weeping. Tread lightly to the music, Nor bruise the tender grass, Life passes in the weather As the sand storms down the glass. Drift easy in the shadows, Bask lazy in the sun, Give thanks for thirsts and quenches, For dines and wines and wenches. Give thought to life soon over, Tread softly on the clover, To bruise not any lover. To exit from the living, Salute and make thanksgiving, Then sleep when all is done, That sleep so dearly won. (Poem by Ray Bradbury)