I daresay I won’t be able to complete this post without shedding a few tears; I’m already welling up, in fact. I’ve been away from my desk, and Dublin, since the wee hours Monday, March 1st, when I was awoken by the doorbell. My dear grandmother, confidante and friend, Laura Mc Mahon (neé Gargan), had passed away. She was 88 years old – may the Lord have mercy on her soul.

My father had driven up from Meath, because I had turned my phone off, as I usually do, though I am unlikely to do so in the future.  It was a long journey. The short walk I cover every day seemed to take an eternity. And of course I always knew this day would come, I was still horribly unprepared. I still am, four days and much mourning later. She is a terrible loss to me, I miss her so much, and I cannot believe that I will never see her at the fireside again. She had a rare warmth of character that meant that each of her grandchildren felt they had an especially close bond with her, and I don’t think anyone who ever met her, forgot her. I hope I can somehow pass on the example she taught me, that somehow I can do her memory justice, because at the moment I still feel incredibly raw, and lonesome.

Of all the things I regret, and cannot change, the worst is both actually and ironically poetic. A few years ago I wrote a poem largely inspired by my relationship with her, and the chats we used to have. I had forgotten about it, until, at the wake, I was reminded of it by my cousins, who had read it on the internet.  Slightly embarrassed, to be honest (I know, it’s strange to put something on the internet and expect no-one to read it, but that’s the way these things go) because I scarcely expected it to see the light of day, as it hadn’t up til now: certainly not in her presence. And so it came to pass, that I read it at her graveside.

In memory of Lolo:-

A little fireside tonight, some conversation

Just the way we have always had it, as friends.

The company of two, it somehow starts, never ends:

Time parts all over, slyly hinting at foreover more.

My memory and heaven are through the same door.

O smile with me a while my stage-managing director!

Underline my style with soul-defying nectar!

And as the fire dies, undry my eyes and let’s not part tonight,

With such a prize, no soul cries, this moment’s becoming bright.

There is an art to conversation. We are characters, you and I

Crafted naturally, grown out of a hearth with a lover’s eye

For sentiment, respect and tradition. Some might say

That we get into it, circumspect and rendition, in this way.

And perhaps it’s too simple, what I’ve spoken and read

But I’m sure you’ve still heard, every word that I’ve said.