A Boy for All Seasons

Everything Comes Back to You

Clouds were abundant in the sky, bleeding into each other seamlessly, blocking out all possibility of hopeful sunshine. Not that such could be expected so late in the day. Oonagh sat wearily watching from the window as the darkest of the throng rolled in from the horizon, bringing with it a smattering of rain. Soon, it gave way to a torrential downpour. Townspeople scurried for cover, like drowned rats clinging to detritus in a bloated sewer way, barely visible through the curtain of rain. Droplets hammered against the windowpane, but Oonagh did not move.

The movement of each bead of moisture hypnotized her as it pelted against the glass before forging a downward path and pooling at the base of the window. Merging, collecting, growing as it fell, creating a myriad of trails. Each was unique and mystifying, unpredictable in form and timing. There was something simultaneously beautiful and sad in the nature of the rain. Prosaic and poetic, cleansing the earth, while lingering and creating trails of mud that dampened the spirits.

Oonagh was unsure of how long the sat in the same position. A draft was emanating past the rusty flashing, between the cracks in the old flaking sealant, and around the glass edge. It caused a slow steady whistle of wind to brush up the hairs on her arms. It was this draft that seems to exacerbate the aching in her already exhausted body, forcing her to quit her silent reverie, and stand up from her alcove.

Stretching her legs and rubbing her arms to generate blood flow, Oonagh took a moment to take in her surroundings. The all too familiar walls of her family pub were still decorated for Christmas. Garland, tinsel, and poinsettias were strategically placed with love. A cheeky string of mistletoe hung in her father's favourite spot: dangling from the glass rack above the bar, just above the well used taps. Yet, the decorations brought no joy to Oonagh today. They were a lacklustre reminder of the last moments of her father's life.

He had been ill for so long, the ravages of a bad heart visible on his frail frame; a heart that had never fully recovered from the death of his wife five years ago. The love between her parents had been such an inspiration for Oonagh. Each day of their 40-year marriage was filled with happiness and adventure. Her parents had been delighted by their daughter, and had never let their inability to produce a sibling get them down. Rather, it had driven them to spend each and every moment being grateful for Oonagh.

Her parents had purchased the pub when Oonagh was only three years old. The family lived upstairs, and it was the only home she had ever known. It was her mother's lifelong dream to own and operate such a joint, wanting to provide a place for locals to sit, chat, and share in community. Within a year it had become the most popular venue in Mullingar, filled with people every evening. It had made her mother so proud.

When she died, Oonagh and her father agreed to continue her legacy, despite the hardships it might bring. Locals continued their support regularly, and the pub was never short of clientele. However, the atmosphere had changed since her passing, and Oonagh felt that the pub presented a daily sad reminder to her father about the loss of the love of his life. Yet he plugged on, a standard fixture behind the bar.

As her father's health started to fail, Oonagh had left her university program in Dublin opting to do the rest of her courses via correspondence or as evening courses at the local community college. Both her parents had wished for Oonagh to complete her education, but she knew where she was needed. The pub was her home, and the only part of her life that brought her meaning. Coming back was no hardship, and even if he never expressed it, she knew her father was grateful for her presence. Many regulars had remarked a renewed vigour in his step after her return. That was two years ago.

The cooler, wet weather of fall had rolled in, and with it came a sharp decline in her father's health. He had landed in hospital after a bout of pneumonia. The doctors stated it was secondary to the pulmonary congestion caused by heart failure. In other words, her father's heart was too weak to pump the blood effectively around his body. It was backing up into his lungs and causing an infection. After a round of antibiotics in hospital, he had been discharged. But the disease had taken its toll. Medical management of his symptoms was the only stop gap between life and death. It was impossible to predict how long he had remaining.