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“Keep that,” he said as he lay it on the worktop next to him. “I want you to have it.”
Áine, for all her intelligence, could not conclude a single reason why Fionn O’ Rourke was walking around with anything that would be given to her.
Nothing.
Not one thing.
“What is it?” She asked.
“Just read it when I’m gone. Please.”
She nodded. “I will.”
He left then, and the bittersweet feeling overtook everything else, making her feel bloated and alone.
He was going and she was staying, and nothing would change that.
All she had left of him was a piece of lined paper.
She unfolded it with great care to find another memory of something she’d once convinced him he was good enough to achieve;
Always, More
In the impending death.
As she cuddled me close.
I begged always to have more.
More comfort upon her body,
Not cushion carved for motherhood, but bone from sickly war.
In the absence.
The dragging in between.
I longed always, yet nevermore.
Nevermore will I hear stories of why she loved me,
like I was practiced, ancient lore.
In the tormented passing years.
Black turning the soil and clothes alike.
I thought it always, nevermore.
Nevermore will the false breaths of sleep
have her fawn and linger at my door.
In the maturing.
The long awaited, hello.
I now think of her evermore.
