I wake like a shot in a bed but not my King. Where am I? This is not my room or is it! It looks awfully familiar. I hear children playing in the distance. My children! I can’t see them, but I hear them laughing. But they can’t be my children as my children are all near grown except for my son who is three years of being a man. Still, I hear children call me by name, by name not Mother, Mammy, Mam or Ma. But by my name, well, by my name to the best of their ability for children so young.

'Sumta, sumta, sumta come play hide and seek with us'

My younger siblings screaming at the top of their lungs as they pile into the open doorway to awaken me to the playing of their game. 

I am home.

Back home again.

Home with my family.

My first family.

 

'Where is Mam?' I scream. 

 

'She is in the kitchen' shouts John. 

 

'Play with us, please' they yell in unison. 

 

'Go hide and I'll count to 100'

 

1, 2, 3, 4 and five I find Mam alive. 

 

She is stood by the stove stirring the pot to cook up a storm for her family of ten, happy singing along to the wireless as it blasts out tie a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree. She catches me spying on her solo performance and stops mid-stream to ask. 

 

Where did you come out of? 

 

‘Out of you’ says I with a smile. 

 

‘You sure did’ says she with a smile. 

 

Our Mother-daughter greeting whenever we happen to meet. 

 

Where are the others? 

 

Hiding. 

 

Are you seeking? 

 

I am. 

 

Shouldn't you go find them. 

 

In a bit. 

 

What's stopping you? 

 

You.

 

Me!

 

Why me? 

 

I want a quick cuppa and a catchup. 

 

Well, put the kettle on so. 

 

And there are some choccy bickies in the top press, my secret hiding spot if a surprise visitor should come a calling but don't tell the others, they are like a pack of hungry whores, literally impossible to keep anything nice in this house. 

 

I am not your visitor, Mam.

 

I know you're not, but you are my favourite but don't tell the others. 

 

You tell us all, we are your favourite, then you tell us not to tell the others. 

 

That's what Irish mammies say but you, well, you and I have a special bond that goes beyond the here and now. 

 

Sumta, where are you? yelps John.

 

He is getting impatient. 

 

Where do you think he is? 

 

Heaven knows. 

 

I best go find him. 

 

I love You, Mam. 

 

I love You too, Sonny. 

 

Mam's nickname for me, everyone in this house seems to have an aversion to my name, Sonny's dream, the Mary Black rendition always comes up trumps in Mam's books as I stall at the hall door to listen to her hum a bar of the chorus oh, Sonny don't go away, I am here.... 

 

It's time to get on with the game. 

 

Ready or not, here I come.

 

I easily find my sisters as they giggle under beds, but John grows tired of our game and leaves the house to go farming with our father John, the first-generation farmer with a fondness for the drink who wasn't a favourite with the future in-laws but our mother was feisty by nature and fought for their love. 

 

I go back to the kitchen to get that cuppa with Mam, but she is gone, no one seems to know where so I look outside to the farm below only to find father and son, same in namesake, reaping their rewards for a job well done as they drive off into the sunset on their David Brown tractor with a sticker on the back windscreen that reads: she got the crown. 

 

My first tears come for the four out of the ten that have left the game, some sooner than the natural order but the likes of us don't get a say on our departure date, we just come and go like the ebb and flow of the current. I am drowning in this sea of sorrow but still I go on with the making. Making good to wash over the bad that is buried deep below the surface of my being. I pass myself. But a bad Fail is truly how I would grade my existence but no time for such grievances as life is short that's my new go to line since my baby brother John's early departure, cancer doesn't discriminate, it seems to love everyone nowadays.

 

I make my tea and sit for a while with my childhood memories to honour John, eight years my junior, born four days after me in the month of August, Leo the sign of the Lion according to the stars. Candles blown out by these two lions as many a cake we did share down through the years, happier times captured in the memory vault. It's a pity such scenes only come to light with the quenching of the light. You asked me on our last visit what I thought heaven was like, a question our ninety-one-year-old father had asked me on his death bed, a natural concern as he was on the brink of crossing over, but it didn't feel fair that you, a forty-five year old husband and father of three should be in a position to ask such a question and only a year and twenty-one days since dad's passing. But such is life.  My answer to both the same. And both of you seem to find comfort in my reply.  Our Heavenly Queen Mother will take you by the hand and the veil will be lifted, the doors will open wide to a spectacular wedding reception where inside all your FAMILY gone before will be waiting to cheer you on with a big pat on the back for a superb job, you will be led through the crowds to your seat at the top table for a magnificent feast where you'll eat and drink like a king as you await the coming of your queen. 

 

Ten to seven on the eve of the twenty-seventh of the sixth month of the year twenty-twenty-four, the time and date of your death will be forever etched in my mind. A last kiss on the forehead and a final farewell whisper in your ear: just let go and enjoy the wedding.  The doctors told us you were long gone days ago in your coma as there was a bleed on the brain but I knew they were wrong, you were still with us for the nine days of life support and upon hearing my last word you shed a single tear because you could see her coming to take your hand and bring you home. 

 

And what about me? 

 

My older brother yells out from his picture frame above the sacred heart of the home with wavy long chestnut hair dishevelled over his shoulders and eyes like the Mona Lisa, they follow our every move within the room, there is nowhere to hide from this masterpiece of a woman whose name has gone down in history thanks to the talents of the Highest of the High Renaissance Masters, Leonardo Da Vinci, the man behind this woman. 

 

What about me? 

 

Jesus, sorry about that. 

 

My mind is away in another world. 

 

How could I ever forget you my brother, the twin taken too soon, your death changed the dynamics of our family forever, you weren't long in your bed of wreaths when the devil came to stay in the form of drink.  Yours was a heavy cross for our father to carry but thank God for small mercies, he was by your side the day our mother held our beloved John in her warm embrace. 

 

Some say it's a self-portrait. 

 

What is? 

 

The Mona Lisa. 

 

The Woman is the Man.

 

Mona Lisa is Leonardo. 

 

I blame the hair. 

 

The hair? 

 

Everyone had long hair back then, it's hard to tell the women from the men when everyone wears their hair long. 

 

Like you and me?

 

Like past you as you are stuck in the timeline of your death and future I as I am stuck but thankfully with my crowning glory intact.

 

Because fifteen-year-old me sitting beside you now is rocking a GIGANTIC perm thanks to the trends of this timeline. 

 

You’re rocking something alright. 

 

I am sorry. 

 

For what? 

 

For letting you get lost in the collateral damage. 

 

For letting your life be forgotten in the hurt. 

  

For blaming you for changing our lives. 

 

For hating you. 

 

If only you had gone to the lights to cross. 

 

If only you hadn't taken a sip from the poison chalice. 

 

If only you weren't in the Crown. 

 

But you were. 

 

But you did. 

 

But you didn't. 

 

If ifs and buts were candy and nuts. 

 

We'd all have a Merry CHRISTMAS. 

 

Mam useta say that. 

 

You know you are just like her. 

 

I don't know about that. 

 

I do. 

 

She was the best. 

 

She is the best. 

 

You say it like she is still with us. 

 

She is. 

 

Always and forever. 

 

A Mother's love never dies. 

 

Says the one who will never die. 

 

I must be nuts talking to my dead brother. 

 

As mad as a hatter. 

 

Thanks. 

 

To be creative you must be a bit mad. 

 

You think I'm creative!

 

Most definitely.

 

Your creative child still lives within. 

 

You imagine what you desire.

 

You will what you imagine.

 

And you create what you will.

 

Words to live by. 

 

Now, I must bid you adieu my darling sister. 

 

Oh, one last thing. 

 

I just want you to know you never let me get lost. 

 

You see that clock on the wall. 

 

I, the carpenter made that time piece for our family. 

 

Our Mother and Father cherished that piece like a priceless heirloom. 

 

After Our Father's passing you took that piece from their house to your home. 

 

I thank you for honouring my LIFE. 

 

You're welcome, big brother. 

 

Jesus, are you still there, brother? 

 

‘Hello’ says I.

 

Christ Almighty, you are always on the move. 

 

I'm home. 

 

‘Thank God’ says I. 

 

My spirit remains to dwell within. 

 

‘Good to know’ says I with a smile.