ICU

I see you ironing - always ironing - ironing things that don't need to be ironed: vests, socks, pillow-cases, sheets. You've been doing this so many years, I can see you're on automatic pilot. Although your hands are flashing this way and that, expertly tossing the fabric to maximise the effectiveness of each stroke of the iron, your mind is far away. Somebody else would say 'penny for your thoughts' but I am not that kind of son; I am your son, and like you, I leave things unsaid, keep my thoughts to myself, restrict conversation to the mundane and superficial. Perhaps you are little girl in Ireland with black curls and blue eyes, lost in the woods overnight with your little brother. Perhaps you are a teenager brushing your mother's hair as she lies in the coffin. Perhaps you are a wide-eyed innocent on the boat from Rosslare to Fishguard wondering what England holds in store for you. I want to touch your hand and tell you I'm sorry that your life hasn't been better, but I am not that kind of son.