Everything feels familiar in my parents' kitchen this morning. The rest of the house are sleeping, but I'm up, drinking tea, talking to myself and to the dog. She's not my dog though. My dog died two years ago. This one, Mo, is my brother's, and I'm home for the weekend because he's gone and gotten married. My own husband is still asleep in the guest-room bed upstairs and I am still getting used to the idea that he's my husband, and that my brother now has a wife.
Andrew and I slept in what used to be my brother's room, but my sister now refers to it as "the wedding room", full as it is of the gifts people gave us when we married in July. We haven't found space for them yet. For the first month of our marriage, I scoured DAFT in an effort to find some. All the momentum I'd created around the wedding had me falling face first into everyone's expectations. Gotta get a house gotta get a dog gotta have a baby gotta have another. Andrew humoured me patiently, knowing I'd get over it. I did.
It's a cold morning, but the house is warm. Stiflingly so. Later, much later, when Andrew appears for breakfast, he'll say that he feels like a boiled ham. But for now, everyone else is quiet. Mo's giddy, so I take my book outside to the garden, to keep her company while she tears up the lawn. I'm worried she'll wake the others, and I'm not ready for anyone's day but my own to begin just yet. I'm decked out in tracksuit bottoms, a dress and a pyjama shirt; a mishmash of optimism, modesty and good intentions. It's cold outside, the kind of cold that makes your cheeks bloom and your breasts ache, but Mo's company is warm and insistent so I stay awhile. I'm reading Kazuo Ishiguro's Nocturnes. I find the stories colourless and dull, but the words provide a neutral base from which to start my day after a night fuelled by nightmares of milky seas and other people's loneliness. He's written about music, but there's no melody to it. I haven't found anything there to write down and remember.
After a half hour or so, Mo drops one of her toys on my toe. It stings, and I'm reminded of how cold it really is. So I take her inside and make some tea. The air's done me good - I feel better able for the day now. When my sister appears, I tell her I'll make pancakes, and by the time Andrew and my parents have stirred, I have a stack of them staying warm in the oven. We eat them at the table, with maple syrup. My mam's laid out the marmalade too, and some pots of chocolate mousse in lieu of Nutella. It feels a little like Christmas, but I keep that to myself. It's Christmases and weddings I come home for now, I think, and a little sadness settles in my stomach along with the eggs and flour. It takes me a few hours to digest it. Yesterday, when I was out walking Mo with my parents, my mam asked where I'd be spending Christmas this year. She's feeling vulnerable. I know I should reassure her, but I resent being asked and I don't want to make any promises.
"It must be odd having two of your siblings married now" said Kieron to my dad last night, smoking a cigar outside the GAA club. He meant, of course, my brother and I. I don't know how dad answered him, but when I asked him myself later on, he said no, and he looked like he meant it. My mam, sipping her sex on the beach, said she feels a relief. She knows we'll both be cared for, she says, and she doesn't have to worry about us so much any more.
Andrew and I slept in what used to be my brother's room, but my sister now refers to it as "the wedding room", full as it is of the gifts people gave us when we married in July. We haven't found space for them yet. For the first month of our marriage, I scoured DAFT in an effort to find some. All the momentum I'd created around the wedding had me falling face first into everyone's expectations. Gotta get a house gotta get a dog gotta have a baby gotta have another. Andrew humoured me patiently, knowing I'd get over it. I did.
It's a cold morning, but the house is warm. Stiflingly so. Later, much later, when Andrew appears for breakfast, he'll say that he feels like a boiled ham. But for now, everyone else is quiet. Mo's giddy, so I take my book outside to the garden, to keep her company while she tears up the lawn. I'm worried she'll wake the others, and I'm not ready for anyone's day but my own to begin just yet. I'm decked out in tracksuit bottoms, a dress and a pyjama shirt; a mishmash of optimism, modesty and good intentions. It's cold outside, the kind of cold that makes your cheeks bloom and your breasts ache, but Mo's company is warm and insistent so I stay awhile. I'm reading Kazuo Ishiguro's Nocturnes. I find the stories colourless and dull, but the words provide a neutral base from which to start my day after a night fuelled by nightmares of milky seas and other people's loneliness. He's written about music, but there's no melody to it. I haven't found anything there to write down and remember.
After a half hour or so, Mo drops one of her toys on my toe. It stings, and I'm reminded of how cold it really is. So I take her inside and make some tea. The air's done me good - I feel better able for the day now. When my sister appears, I tell her I'll make pancakes, and by the time Andrew and my parents have stirred, I have a stack of them staying warm in the oven. We eat them at the table, with maple syrup. My mam's laid out the marmalade too, and some pots of chocolate mousse in lieu of Nutella. It feels a little like Christmas, but I keep that to myself. It's Christmases and weddings I come home for now, I think, and a little sadness settles in my stomach along with the eggs and flour. It takes me a few hours to digest it. Yesterday, when I was out walking Mo with my parents, my mam asked where I'd be spending Christmas this year. She's feeling vulnerable. I know I should reassure her, but I resent being asked and I don't want to make any promises.
"It must be odd having two of your siblings married now" said Kieron to my dad last night, smoking a cigar outside the GAA club. He meant, of course, my brother and I. I don't know how dad answered him, but when I asked him myself later on, he said no, and he looked like he meant it. My mam, sipping her sex on the beach, said she feels a relief. She knows we'll both be cared for, she says, and she doesn't have to worry about us so much any more.
