Brendan was caught in a horrific bombing in Derry and injured not only physically but emotionally.
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Rebirth
A thick line of swirling black crossed my eyes.
Slowly.
Slowly.
Slowly drifting into focus.
Silently cutting straight through the middle of the horrible white...white...white evil smothering me. Hot and vile and holding me in a place from which I could not move.
Slowly.
Slowly.
Slowly the dark line expanded. Took shape to finally reveal it was an old windowsill before me. Paint weather-beaten, dried and bleached by the sun. Curled into little shreds. Creviced lines, gray and deep and dark, that used to be the grain on a sort of wood.
I think.
But what else could it be? I could see now...that bits had been shredded away by rain and wind. Maybe someone’s careless pulling at the splinters. The gray was not consistent in tone. Maybe it was me did that. The thought nudged my brain then softly wandered away. Not that it mattered. The wood was so lovely in its weaving grooves and patterns. Each line exquisitely positioned to add to its gracefulness. The work of an artist at his peak. And all this for a mere sill to a window.
How perfect.
The beauty of it brought tears to my eyes. The exquisite care taken in placing each line exactly right next to its brother. But what added the finest compliment was a steady line of ants scurrying back and forth across a half-straight section to swirl over and dismantle what was left of...of a half-eaten sandwich?
Oh...and crisps on a dish. Greedy little buggers wanted those, as well.
Both were set in the corner of the window, just to my right. Looked like some sort of fish salad on light bread. Not dried out or so very old. Part of a crust lay next to it.
Had it been mine?
Possibly. There was a taste in my mouth that was rather fishy. And in my hand was a short bottle of Coke. Sweaty and half gone. Barely chilled. If it was me who sipped it, I didn’t remember but...
The tea and cakes I shared with Joanna at The Diplomat were so smooth in the mixture of gentle and tart and real, and she loved it as much as me and...and...
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God...eyes closed. Eyes closed. Deep breath. Long and slow.
Long.
Slow.
Long...
Slow...
I finally opened my eyes.
Looked at the window sill.
The black and gray was still there. The ants still swirled and raced back and forth. The sandwich and crisps were still a mass of busy little beasts.
I coughed. And drew in a deep breath. And let my heart slow its racing.
I was seated on a chair. One that swiveled back and forth with a gentle creak.
My anchor.
I needed it, for by looking outside the window, I was floating well above the ground and...and I saw...no, I just noticed...no, realized...I was actually on the first floor of a house, looking down at a yard that was nothing like what you would find in Derry.
And which could have used some tending.
Half was covered in red bricks, with grass forcing its way between them in ragged strands. Clumps of leaves and twigs were scattered about. A large rectangular swimming pool held the other half, more bricks and mortar encompassing it. At the far end was a small house built of similar bricks, with its windows trimmed in black and a slanted roof made of tin.
How curious...I'd not seen a building like that in Derry, before. Brick, yes. Roof, yes. But the windows were of a modern type that seemed wrong for my part of the world. Was this some of the new construction up Creggan? Pennyburn, maybe? Up the Strand Road?
Except...there was nothing new about it. Thick strands of ivy twisted up its corners and along the top to a covered porch. A wire fence laced with deep green vines of thick, drooping, leaves and fragrant yellow and white flowers extended from it to surround the yard and wander up a pair of trees that flanked the little house. Trees offering such a lovely deep cool shade. A bunched-up strip of colorful cloth was strung between one of them and a post of that porch. An old bicycle, rusted but repairable, was propped up against the other post. It was all dark and still and felt almost like a little hideaway.
A large, ragged clap-board shed was to my right, before one of the trees, standing unto itself. Also under a tin roof...and much in need of painting. This was growing more and more curious. No, confusing.
No...no...frightening...
Two large wide doors faced a well-tended gravel drive that led up to the shed. No...it must be garage...maybe...for an old Volvo was parked to one side and...
And that bloody para with the shifting column fingering his gun and snarling, "Where'd you come from and tell us why's your mate hurt there and did you really come from workin' a car an' not from tossin' stones an'...and...?"
Deep breath.
Long and slow.
Long.
Slow...
And I coughed...and almost chuckled. Tossing stones? Who didn't on this side of the Foyle and why were people always wanting to know that and pushing in on you and demanding of you and not happy with your answers no matter how true and taking from you...and taking and taking, like those bloody ants were taking the last of my meal without so much as a by-your-leave, the bastard things, and...
I used that coke bottle to crush half of them in the line. Spilling some over the greedy little fucks. No care for anything but their own belly. They scattered and scurried about, and I chuckled, deep and angry, and brushed more off the sill into the air. Sent the sandwich flying with them, still on its plate. I heard it break as it hit the ground, far below, and I smiled, thinking, Take from that, you bastards...
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