#Irish #HomageToTheDeparted #WhatIsDoneCannotBeUndone #TheNextPlace It was done. He had looked at the clock - it read 12:27 in the morning, and the priest had closed Davids eyes, murmuring a prayer and Godsend that Aidan recited from memory without being conscious of its impact or meaning. Margaret simply kissed Davids forehead, her face blank, smooth. Stepping back, she sighed and raised wide gray eyes to look unseeing at her son and he crossed himself, reflexively. She hovered there, between the dead and the living, as if uncertain of her place between the two men who had split her life. Aidan reached a hand to grasp hers, choosing for her. She stood stiffly a moment, watching over her shoulder as if waiting for David to spring up, irrationally and in a fit of temper. Aidan felt the superstition of it, for it was so new perhaps it could be so, and felt the oddity in the room as it held its breath and the priest murmured his somber farewells. In the vacuum of silence left, he felt it, the brush of something along his spine that made the fine hairs on his arms stand up. _Ye go now,_ he thought, without being fully conscious of it. _Ye’ve had your say. Now ye move on to the next place._ In the span of a breath, the atmosphere changed, relaxed. Emptied. “It’s done.” He hadn’t meant to speak, but it had to be said, for she might have stayed so the whole night, watching and tensed for the moment when David’s eyes would open again. She took a deep breath, and turned to him with fresh tears on her cheek. “’Tis.” He let her cry, a hand over her hair, his own eyes dry, lending the only help he’d ever had for her, grateful in the truth. _‘Tis done._
Posted on: Fri, 15 Nov 2013 03:17:56 +0000
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