into the fellowship hall
at St Aloysius bearing
platters and bowls.
bottles and casseroles.
The urn filled with
Billy Gilligan’s cremains
sat center on a small table
surrounded by vases filled
with yellow Irish Hope roses.
The Jamison flowed
abundantly and glasses
were raised and quickly
drained, “to Billy, wherever
he snores, God rest his soul.”
Erin searched for a spot
to deposit a platter
of Cheezwhiz on crackers,
shifted Emily’s deviled eggs
towards the back of the table.
“I see you, Erin, whatta ya
think you’re doing?
Those took a lot of effort
I’m sure, sprayed out of
can on a box of Ritz.”
“Well I see you brought
the appropriate swill,
named for your master
who visits your bed nightly
from his lair in Hell.”
“Erin and Emily, cease
and desist, I insist”
says Rory.”Now's not the time
nor the place for behaving
like cats in a back alley.”
The lasses turn as one,
“Shut your lip, Rory, if there’s
anyone here with the character
of a feline, you should’ve been
christened Tom, not Ruairi!”
“Ain’t that the truth,”
pipes up Maureen as she
takes the foil off a plate
of sliced ham and hands
it to Sean. “Right, Sean?”
She swats his hand as
he reaches for a slice
with a cigarette lovingly
clutched between yellow
nicotine-stained fingers.
“It’s ashes to ashes
for our corporeal selves,
not to season the ham, ya oaf.”
“Sorry, Mo,” he says as he
licks the offending digits.
Everyone turns as Big Pat
enters the hall like a prize bull,
a five gallon clear plastic sack
of rolls dangling from one hand
and a fifth of Red Spot in t’other.
He drops the bag of rolls
next to the table, turns round
nearly falling and says
“help yourselves,” and takes
a deep draught from the bottle.
Frail Christina wheels her chair
across the room, halts directly
in front of Big Pat. “I need some
help, Pat, would you put some ham
on a roll for me please?”
Pat gently brushes a lock of
Christina’s snowy white bangs
away from her temple.
“Sure, Lil’ Buddy, happy to
oblige, like some mustard on it?”
“Yes thanks, and I’ll have small glass
of that Red Spot if you’re sharing.”
“Of course you may, the color
of this fine spirit always reminds me
of the color your hair once was.”
“I asked for some ham, and
you’re serving baloney slathered
with malarkey, dear Pat, that ship
was stranded on a wild shore
when you and I and dear departed
Gilligan were young and innocent.
You alway had a taste for the whiskey,
you nursed that one bottle for years,
drinking it a few drops at a time.
And when it was empty, we composed
a note and tossed it into the sea.
Ten months later, a ship arrived
and we all went on to our separate lives.
And almost never spoke to each other,
no letters, no calls, why was that?”
Pat hands her a plastic cup of Irish
and ham on a roll. “We just
wanted to forget, didn’t we all?
I’ve been trying to ever since.”
Raises the bottle. “This helps for a while.”
“Alas, poor Gilligan, I knew him well,
dear Tina, a fellow of infinite jest,
of most excellent fancy: he has borne
me on his back a thousand times; and now,
how abhorred in my imagination it is!”
Tina raises her glass, “Bravo Pat!
One of God’s fools indeed, wiser than we
think ourselves to be, but without
the pretentiousness. I’m sorry that
we didn’t stay in touch, now it’s too late.”
“Too late in this world, for sure. but
perhaps in the next, somewhere
warm, tropical, with gentle breezes
and cocoanut palms, how does that
sound, Tina?” “That sounds grand, Pat”
