Flying Through Colour

Painting borrowed from Bing

Flying Through Colour

I boarded an aeroplane,
flew through orange,green and blue
I watched the emergency procedures, thinking:
Is there a whistle to blow for grief?.
The plane landed in the grey and green of
Dublin. I carried my suitcase, heavy
and bulging with a twenty year old's gypsy bundle of
beads, dresses
and hope.
I gifted my father his two favourite books
I had removed clothes from my suitcase to fit them in.

That's how much I loved him.

PG Wodehouse running riot in a country house
somewhere in a shire.
He laughed between morphine shots
'you should try
reading on this stuff'
His body had been stolen by cancer
but his eyes glistered with equal measures
of opiate and love.
'Is there anything I can do?'
I asked quietly, as if speaking
loudly would offend the multiplying cells.

'You can tell me what happens in the end'
my father whispered,
'just in case'.

Brigid O'Connor


In memory of my father, who's 22nd anniversary was
last Friday. I still have the books with a dedication from
twenty-three year old me;
'To Daddy, love Brigid xx'.


Posted over on her site Sort of Writing
Listed as #4 over on Magpie Tales 71