I gave her about four outs since I suggested it, but each time she said she was okay with coming here as long as I was. Andnow here we were. The sun has sunk down by now, the sky dusky and stars are starting to poke through the murky fabric of the air.
“Just down this way.” I can hear the shake in my own voice. I haven’t been here in a while, not since Claire’s birthday. But I’ve been here enough to know the way like the back of my hand.
“This place is kind of calming for a cemetery,” she looks around, her eyes taking in the neat row of headstones, the wilting flowers on some of the graves. “You know, not as creepy as I expected.”
“Yeah, it's a small place... he's right up here.”
He's nestled in between two other graves I've gotten to know fairly well from all my trips here. On one side was Shannon Clár Blue, 1969 - 1981, and on the other side was Johnathan Collin Lynch, 1964 to 1983, a childhood friend of my da’s. On the other side of Shannon's grave was my Nanny Aoife, who died in '93. Her death is what started my fathers two year drinking problem, him unable to take another loss in his life.
I can’t even be mad at him for it. All I lost was one person and look how well I coped.
Molly crouches down in front of Da, reading his headstone.
“Patrick Brian Blue,” she murmurs, running her fingers over the engraved letters. “1964 to 2002.”
“Yeah.” I crouch next to her, the damp grass seeping through the knees of my jeans. “He was thirty-seven. Would've been thirty-eight.”
“You never told me you guys' had the same birthday.”
“Yeah.” I chuckle, sad and hollow. “He used to say I was his birthday present.”
Molly smiles at that. She glances up at me, then back at the grave. “Do you come here often?”
“Sometimes,” I admit. “But usually if I want to talk to him I... I'll go to The Strand. Because... you know. He drowned.”
She nods in understanding, not asking for more, running her fingers over the engraved epitaph. “What's this say?”
“Cibé áit a shiúlann tú, gheobhaidh mé thú,” I pronounce it out for her.
“What does it mean?”
“It's Irish. Means ‘wherever you walk, I will find you.’”
“That’s beautiful.”
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a golf ball. “Yeah.”
She stands up, brushing off her knees. “What else?”
I glance up at her, her silhouette framed against the darkening sky. “What?”
“What else do you want me to know about him?”
I smile softly, a genuine heartfelt smile that reaches my eyes. “He had the worst singing voice. Like, truly awful. But he sang all the time.”
“What was his favorite song?”
“This old folk song, you wouldn’t know it. I've got the record in my bedroom. I'll have to play it for you sometime.”
“How about right now?”
50
Our Constellation
Molly
December, 2007
