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.)