by nathanael o'reilly

i.m. kay quigley

On Parnell Road beside the Grand Canal
near the Dolphin’s Barn library we stop
to change the rear driver’s-side tyre on a blue
hatchback for a young woman with my wife’s
name travelling with her toddler and mother.
All three wait in the car while we labour
in the rain with a rusty jack and nuts.

We visit my great-aunt in Portobello,
learn the ice has kept her inside for days.
Kay welcomes us into her kitchen,
makes tea, shares her special biscuits,
says the last time the canal froze over
she was a child. Standing beside her
photo-covered fridge door, she narrates
each picture, names each child, grandchild,
great-grandchild, boyfriends and girlfriends,
explains where each loved one is living,
working and studying, from Boston
to Virginia to Chicago.

After great craic at O’Donoghues,
we head towards Temple Bar but never
make it, lured by warmth and sweet music
into the Dame Tavern, where we sing,
talk and drink until sleep calls our names.

In St. Mary’s we regard the columns,
marble statues and stained glass, sit
silently near the altar in a pew
with my surname engraved on a gold plaque.

On New Year’s Eve we join the crowds
on the street outside Christchurch, sing
and dance with the guards, call our loved ones,
embrace strangers as the midnight bells toll.