| An Scáthán | The Mirror |
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| An Scáthán (i gcuimhne m’ athar) | The Mirror (in memory of my father) |
| Niorbh é m’athair níos mó é ach ba mise a mhacsan; paradacsa fuar a d’fháisceas, dealbh i gculaith Dhomhnaigh a cuireadh an lá dár gcionn. Dhein sé an-lá deora, seirí, fuiscí, ceapairí feola is tae. Bhí seanchara leis ag eachtraí faoi sciuird lae a thugadar ar Eochaill sna triochaidí is gurbh é a chéad pháirtí é i seirbhís Chorcaí/An Sciobairín amach sna daicheadaí. Bhí dornán cártaí Aifrinn ar mhatal an tseomra suí ina gcorrán thart ar vás gloine, a bhronntanas scoir ó CIE. Níorbh eol dom go ceann dhá lá gurbh é an scáthán a mharaigh é. An seanscáthán ollmhór Victeoiriach leis an bhfráma ornáideach bréagórga a bhí romhainn sa tigh trí stór nuair a bhogamar isteach ón tuath. Bhinn scanraithe roimhe: go sciorrfadh anuas den bhfalla is go slogfadh mé d’aon tromanáil i lár na hoiche. |
He was no longer my father but I was still his son; I would get to grips with that cold paradox, the remote figure in his Sunday best who was buried the next day. A great day for tears, snifters of sherry, whiskey, beef sandwiches, tea. An old mate of his was recounting their day excursion to Youghal in the Thirties, how he was his first partner on the Cork/Skibbereen route in the late Forties. There was a splay of Mass cards on the sitting-room mantelpiece which formed a crescent round a glass vase, his retirement present from CIE. I didn’t realise until two days later it was the mirror took his breath away. The monstrous old Victorian mirror with the ornate gilt frame we had found in the three-storey house when we moved in from the country. I was afraid that it would sneak down from the wall and swallow me up in one gulp in the middle of the night. |
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Michael Davitt |
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| Ealaíontóir/Artist: Peannaire/Calligrapher: Aistritheoir/Translator: Ainmníodh ag/Nominator: |
Andrew Folan Réiltín Murphy Paul Muldoon The Author |
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