Red Umbrella on Inishmoor I remember the red umbrella that my mother held, while we were walking together on Inishmmor. Our only trip away that summer from her mother’s hearth, crowned with brass-rimmed photos of the dead, while the embers settled about the range. Ashes now, where her sister-in-law fed her husband’s hungry mechanics and drivers, while my mother’s sisters, not ash yet, pecked their beaks about the tea cups and saucers. But for the pair of us wild geese, down to Galway and perching at the hostel, before flying out on the coach to the Ailwee Caves, to the Aran Islands and back to dance along the streets, fuelled by Guinness pie and shared sweeties. Geese or ducks it made no difference, when my mother finally noticed me noticing one summer, the birds of all things, and how it all worked for them. The drake puffing and strutting about the spring reeds at the edge of the waters, fierce enough to push his bird beneath the surface if it helped to get the job done. Hen or dame they both end up near drowned, unless they’re flighty enough. My mother will tell you about the time she stalked ducks with her brother up on the Sliabh Fiadh, and he pushed her face down into the sphagnum moss to get a better shot. It was on the main street that the farmer caught up with us. Him so sure of himself after his chat on the ferry over, sweet aran sweater, grey crew cut parted like a tree, resting at an odd angle against the westerlies. Basking in the sun, in the sure and warm welcome that was surely coming to him, his smile that only showed his bone-bright teeth when he had to ask for the second time, where my mother had got to. She was right beside me... I remember the raw wood, exposed where the flaking white paint had fallen from the side of the fishing boat, that my mother hid behind until after he had finally gone, and the umbrella spinning alone on the wet tarmac in front of me.
SM Jenkin
15
