Sunday, August 9, 2009

Blogging in a pub is a unique experience:
fans of the Mayo-Meath match of the Gaelic
Football League quarter finals are making
a LOT OF NOISE! And it's fun! A woman sitting
beside me just now was holding a white toy poodle
who was dressed in a fur-trimmed pink hoodie.
(The poodle, that is.) When this woman and her male
companion got up to leave, they outfitted themselves
head-to-toe in motorcycle gear, and the poodle
was zipped into the mesh outside pocket
of a backpack. Yikes.

I ordered a large bottle of Bulmer's pear cider,
and it is indeed large: 568mL. It's a lovely
pale gold, icy and delicious.


For some reason I keep thinking about
two of my belongings which were stolen
in the burglary last May: my father's pipe
(he passed away in 1966) and my late
husband's wallet. The pipe, even all these years
later, carried my father's scent. (I recall, as a child,
sneaking into my mom's bedroom when she wasn't
home, opening the drawer which held the pipe,
and just inhaling. ) The wallet, after nearly six years
of being stored in a drawer, contained an unnameable
essence that belonged to Mark and Mark only.
It also held his last driver's license -- I loved that photo --
as well as baby pictures of the boys, and the photo
that he liked to carry of me: from grade 5.
And then the bits and bobs of daily life
that one carries around: in this case, the final
bits and bobs. These two objects were worth more
to me than any computer, any x-box, any replaceable
camera. I question their monetary value to anyone --
a long expired driver's license, a well-used square of leather,
an old lip-worn pipe. I keep reminding myself
(as does Paul) that I have to be thankful that my
sons were not injured. I AM THANKFUL, every minute.
And I know that these things are indeed just "things."
And that I've moved on in my life.
But dammit, I feel as if my memories have been
violated, wrenched from me. And have most likely
been tossed in the garbage. My only consolation
is that they do still exist, somewhere.
I hope someone is taking good care of them.

(I can feel still the leather of that wallet
against my cheek, worn tender from years
in a back pocket.)

(I've been pondering writing this post
for weeks now, and it feels good to finally
get it down on the screen. Perhaps now
I can let go of these objets, and get on with other things.)


  1. I too still recall with an ache at times a couple of items of that nature that were stolen. Yes, so much, to what you wrote.

    Love, C.

  2. I too hope writing this helps to let go, and I'm so thankful to you for your writing--about Mark's wallet especially.

  3. We all, I think, tend to tread the world in hobnail boots, heedless of the life we crush, but some people never take their boots off. I find myself hoping (against all hope, I know) that whoever stole those keepsakes from you happens upon your blog and reads what you have written and knows, at last, the harm that their petty act of selfishness really did to you.

    Grumpy today. Can you tell?

  4. I can fully appreciate the sense of violation from a robbery. The thoughtless taking of treasured items that bear a priceless value in your heart, most certainly defines loss. Yet, your description, your memory, brought to both pipe and wallet, have made these objects, your father and your late husband known anew. No one can rob you of your heart's treasure.

  5. ah, love those untraveled roads.

    but men often see roads, and driving, merely as a way of getting from point A to point B.