St. Pat's

It's hard to remember if this was all here before. These trees, these plants, these benches, these people. How am I meant to know if these people are new or if they’ve been coming here longer than I could even remember? I used to come here, of course. I used to come here almost every day, but that was before…

Times were simpler then. Or perhaps they were just different. Different can seem so bad when it’s forced upon you without having asked for it. There’s only so far a ‘positive mental attitude’ can take you. Positive. They used to tell me to be positive. ‘It will all be fine’ they would say during her last few months, like they knew something I didn’t. But they were wrong. Oh, how they were wrong. I would laugh in all their faces, except that it wouldn’t be me that would get the last laugh, would it? Not now. Not anymore.

We used to come here, she and I. That much I do remember, as if it were yesterday. The willows stretched long, bending gently to the river, kissing the banks with a delicate swaying caress. We would walk the dog. She would always bring bread to feed the ducks. Every few days she would go up to the bakery at the top of the road and ask if they had any scraps that she could have. They would fill a bread bag with crusts and bread that was too old to sell and she would walk back down to me, a huge grin on her face. She never tired of it and I never tired of seeing her so happy. She could find the joy in anything. Now it feels like all the joy is gone.

It’s her favourite time of year again now, just coming into Spring, the evening sun warm as it considers setting, but the air crisp. When the brand new ducklings are fumbling over each other to be first in line as they trail behind mum. They won’t all survive, of course. Groups of 8 will dwindle to 3 or 4 by the end of the season. But each family will make it through for the little ones to create their own the following year. They seem to be out slightly early this year, perhaps it was a milder winter.

We had such a lovely little family, just the four of us at first. Though of course that grew as the years went on and our two had their own little ones. Elizabeth had three of her own. We never liked her husband all that much, but he was a good sort really, and they seemed happy. Then just when we thought our boy wouldn’t have children, he surprised us with little Caroline. She was the sweetest little thing, all bright ideas and so much energy. But now I will have to watch her grow up alone. 

Or perhaps I too will not be around for much longer. These days it takes me longer to get out of bed, longer to get dressed. I have less to live for now that she’s gone. Elizabeth told me to get a dog to occupy me but I can’t see the point if there’s only me to enjoy it. I can’t even see the point of coming to the park anymore, but here I am. I’m not sure what brought me here today, it’s been months since I last came, months since she’s been gone. But something about this evening drew me out and across the road from my house. I’ve looked over here every day, of course, tears welling in the corners of my eyes. Eventually I look away, the pain too deep to face and I go and make a cup of tea for one. There’s no point in making a pot just for me. But for some reason it felt a little less painful today as I looked over at the daffodils starting to bloom, the sun sparkling on the water, the ducks gliding along. Something was tugging at me, drawing me out of my pyjamas and into my outside clothes. I pulled on my shoes - proper outdoor shoes, not my usual choice of slippers - and then a jumper, and I ventured tentatively out the front door. The air cool, but the sun warm on my face. It was a feeling I had felt many times before.

My gait was slow, my legs stiff. I felt like I had aged many years over these past few months, but I kept going. One foot in front of the other, just one step at a time. Someone jogged past and said hello. I mustered a smile back and I crossed the road.

The park felt foreign in these first steps, the grass crunched under my feet, crispy and harsh. But there was also another feeling there, lurking deeper. A sense of familiarity, a sense of coming home. A sense of connection to her, and to life buzzing around me. The man running, the woman walking her dog, the small child taking uneven pendular steps, trying to find its footing in this new world. I could relate to that. They do say that as you get older you start to regress and become more like a child again.

I look down at my own uneven strides. I’m not the man I once was. But how could I be, without her to care for, to make tea for in the morning, to bring lunch while she watches her Soaps on TV, to bring a glass of half-lemonade-half-ginger-ale every evening as I’m making dinner, to play a game of cards with as we have our evening drink and listen to some music on the record player, the same one we'd had since our wedding day.

I feel the tears start to fight their way forwards again and I stop to close my eyes and take a big deep breath. Why did I come out? Why now? Why today?

Once composed, I walk down to the water’s edge and sit on a bench to watch this year’s families of ducks weaving here and there across the river.

A young man walks past with his dog and smiles.

‘Happy St. Pat’s Day, fella!’ He calls to me.

St. Patrick’s Day. That’s today? Her birthday. How could I have forgot? It’s been months since I have taken note of what day it is, let alone what week or month.

And as I sit there, the tears come. First, prickling at the corners of my eyes and the back of my nose, hot and sharp as they usually do, but instead of blinking them back, I let them fall. It feels like I am crying oceans, and rivers. Enough tears for ducks to swim in and families to come by and feed them with offcuts of bread.

But for the first time in months I don’t feel entirely alone. I don’t feel like I’m slowly withering away inside the four corners of our home. My home. 

I almost feel like she’s here with me.

Maybe she is. Maybe she brought me here. After all, it is St. Patrick's Day and Spring is here.