Mary and Her Letter 1965.

The pen leaked on the page; the black blob spoilt the look. You tore out the page of the writing pad and selecting another pen, began. The writing pad was your mother’s, the pen one left over from school. You hated writing letters, but since Magdalene left Tipperary and went to London, it was your only way of corresponding. You gazed at the blank page, the pen tapping your chin. You wanted to tell her about your recent jerk of a boyfriend, but since you had given him the elbow it wasn’t worth wasting time on about. You started with a general outline of the week, about the nurses moaning at you because of your slowness of cleaning the wards. You had begun. There she was in London and here you were in Tipperary. You told her how you fancied the past boyfriend’s mother more than the boy, how you found it difficult not to grab her and kiss her so smooth cheek. You paused. You wondered what his mother would have said if you had kissed her. Magdalene would understand; she was probably bedding women where she was and the mere thought made you jealous. You breathed in deeply. The ex-boyfriend would not have been too pleased if he had found you in bed with his mother, given that his mother had agreed. You wrote about your parents, a mere line. You told her old Sister Ambrose at school had passed away; gone to meet her maker and what a surprise God would have when she turned up. You took a cigarette from a pack and lit it. You inhaled deeply. After a few more lines you closed up and planted black kisses at the bottom. You read the letter through; not your best scribbling, but it would have to do. Your mother called up reminding you it was dinner time. You pushed the letter into the envelope and licked it down. You’d get your mother to write the address, your handwriting was such a mess.