Spent a lot of time on the phone tonight,
scratchy connections with doctors and nurses
and both sons. The reality of what has occurred
has suddenly hit R., and even though his prognosis
is excellent, he's terrified. Dispirited.
I keep saying these words to myself, to demystify them:
Like a heart beat.
Until the words become real.
Until they are boring.
Until they are ordinary.
Some friends came by tonight for drinks
& hors d'oeuvres: talk of politics
and Irish cultural heritage and the width of roads
and flower species and horses and Stonehenge
and holy wells and Barack and the Magdalene Laundries
and the price of sheep's wool and an island called Crovinish
and poets and cairns.
Among other things.
They are lovely people (these friends), every last one of them.
And of course, always in the back of my mind:
Reilly. In the front of my mind. Everywhere.