Ernest

When I was a baby my mother put me in the care of my grandparents.  With us lived my uncles and a cousin of theirs.  Across the road lived another cousin and her children, Maureen and Ernest, twelve years my senior.  Those three had their meals with us and were constantly in and out of the house.  As I grew up I was treated with a sort of distant scorn by Ernest who called me "Woman" and left me in no doubt that I was a "girl" - a being to be tolerated.  To me he was a "boy", a member of the mysterious male clan, best viewed from afar. 

Years passed.  I returned to live in the UK but visited the family home regularly.  I was still "Woman" but now there was humour and affection in the sobriguet.   Now I could smile at the teasing and join happily in the banter.  As adults we became friends.  Gradually I realised how much I respected Ernest for the person he was, caring, very private, fiercely loyal, religious, a man of simple pleasures, love and laughter.

 In recent years he had contracted Parkinsons and eighteen months ago his wife of forty years died and his heart walked out the door with her.  Two weeks ago Ernest, the closest I had to a brother, died the day after I arived back in Ireland to see him.  He had suffered a stroke and a heart attack.  His speech was affected but the sounds he made when he opened his eyes had the pattern of "How are you"?  I think he recognised me.  The next morning we were told that he had spent a comfortable night.  Half an hour later we were told that he had gone.  I thanked a benevolent God that I had been able to wish him a Goodnight and I like to think that he knew I was there.

I am sad but in my mind's eye I can see him laugh and gleefully call me "Woman".