Personal Blog

Richie
(25/06/2007)

He was always
ghost-like: a shock
of blond hair and a skeletal
grimace.

I used to watch him
from the church altar: his eyes dreamt of being
with us.
His sister sat translucent also, under
a halo of ginger hair. No physical father ever accompanied
the two children.

Years

passed. Then
I’d see him: denim-clad, chipper, and a buddy
to old men: the newspaper seller;
the shopping-mall sweep.

He’d sport a Morton top. No friend
of the sun, he’d hang
around, under the cold eaves of the chapel grounds.
He would cut the holy lawn; beam
with pride at the clutch of heavy keys.

Friday night. Mother told me:
‘That wee boy hanged himself’

on Monday night.”

posted by Hugh O'Donnell @ 7:52 PM