Three flights up… by pd lyons

Re Joyce part 5

march 12, 2012

They got home three flights up. he made a snack of pasta, tomatoes, olive oil and parmesan,  which they both ate at the table together. Homework was difficult. A writer’s tantrum over how boring and stupid her idea to write about an alien. Aliens aren’t even real so how can I have him do anything! I wasted a whole page on a boring idea! He suggests a waiting meditation to let the blockage pass. Well Dad, can I read while I meditate? They lay down on the bed together, she reads her latest Beverly Cleary and he’s on volume two of the newest Teddy Roosevelt biography. Soon they’d have to get up, make the drive down to pick the Mom up from work. Six today instead of half six. It was four forty-five now. They’d read until it was time to go.


Now the child to bed, the wife in the other room reads, he sits in the kitchen looks out the same morning window; now into dark still February night occasioned by car lights almost streaky red, amber and green traffic lights across the green. Old blues radio “To lay in the wind… To lay in the rain… Wish I was laying in your loving arms again.” maybe Katie Webster, maybe not. A pour of Connemara twelve year old single malt ahh peated turf smoke infused honey, purple heathers, iodine ocean ozone and enough heat to loosen your tongue. Last visit home a gift from duty-free to each other. Joyce, Dublin, Whiskey, the wife homesick today too. E-mail from her father.  Mother’s ok. He’s ok. The dog’s ok. Everyone’s ok. The election is coming. Fine Gael should walk through. The country’s fucked either way.

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