I could even be Irish...

Such is life...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I could even be Irish...

 

 

Mono; that’s what my father always called me. In Spanish the word means monkey, but my father was not Hispanic. I always assumed he mocked me by the name because my hair and features were dark like cinnamon and my mother and he both had light colored hair and fair skin. Nonetheless, whether for real or imagined reasons I was never fully accepted in his life. I just knew I didn't look at all Irish like him.

            Complicating this aspect of my existence was the fact that the baker was Hispanic, the milkman was Italian, and the butcher was Croatian, and all of them were exceptionally nice to my mother. She thrived on all of their attentions, for she certainly received none at home from my father. When sent away on errands, more regularly than most of my friends, I could see my eyes in the baker, my cheekbones in the milkman, and my stocky build in the butcher and they would all offer me free food at various times. None of this gave me a dime’s peace.

Without a doubt my father wanted my mother around, for if she was out of his sight for a moment something might be amiss, so all day long he yelled for his coffee, or his paper, or his blankets. For ten years he had been bedridden, though I still wonder if it wasn’t simply to keep her close by, to make her wear her guilt like some rich women wear pearls.

            Mother was certainly no angel, unless angels are actually restless and perverse. On more than one occasion I saw her spit in my father’s soup then later cry in her own. She would often wash his clothes with lavender oil, knowing full well it made him itch. Never once did she touch him, in love or anger; it was as if he were a leper. For his pain he took a prescription, and for her pain she gave him twice the dose.

Often when he would fall into a medicated sleep she would leave me alone with him for hours so she could “get some fresh air,” she would say. During these times I would look at his face and wonder at his dreams, knowing that when he was awake my eyes could stare only at my feet in his presence. His dreams came through his mumbling lips in groans and sobs. In the depths of his mind lay some horrid indescribable monster that fed on his sleep.

            As he lay restless on his bed I would stare at a faint wedding picture of my parents in the drawer beside his bed, the only photo of them together that I ever saw. My mother appeared in a beautiful wedding gown and for once they seemed happy in each other’s company. My birthday came just one year after their wedding, though neither date was ever celebrated in our home. From the day of my birth I became the obstacle that kept them apart, so for each I was like a curse.  

            Shortly after I turned nine my parents began to send me to church each Sunday. It wasn’t to find God I later realized; it was more like taking a dry log off your fire to let the flames cool just slightly in its absence. While I was away for those few hours their upturned life was at least quiet, even if the storm was approaching just outside and wiping the mud off his feet. Unknowingly, my presence became like smoke filling a room, and the longer I stayed the darker things grew.

September 15^th still rattles my body and mind. It was never a date celebrated in our family, but I will never forget the significance. Papers came on that date to my father. All he did all day between his sobs and ranting was scream my mother’s name. It had been their anniversary, but now it would be the final resting place of their marriage. 

Not surprisingly there was no battle for my custody, as if I hadn’t been in custody all my life. At eighteen I was now on my own. I knew most likely why my father would not want me around, but my mother’s reason was less obvious. Either she was ashamed of what she had done nearly nineteen years ago or regretful of what she had not.

Within a year my father, or so I had come to call him slipped into a trance and died mumbling my mother’s name. Not once did I hear him call my name or whisper for me to stand at his side, yet there I was wishing somehow that his arm would accidentally slip and touch mine. Somehow I wished he would call me Mono one more time. At least his clothing did not make him itch in those last few months; I made certain of that.

For a time my mother dated several men trying to find one who would provide for her, so she had plenty of free meat, bread, and milk from the butcher, the baker, and the milkman. Last I heard she was with a farmer who could supply her with all three, but it doesn’t really matter much to me anymore. The simple act of divorce gave my mother the freedom she craved, even from me, and my father the nightmare he feared. Loneliness can be a most ravenous monster when you sleep.

I have neither mother nor father to embrace me now or strike my cheek, though I still dream of such things. A pastor in a sermon on a Sunday years ago had said that “hell’s not so hot as a marriage grown cold.” It had been so cold in my home for so many years that a simple touch can feel like a fire to me even now.

To my childhood I say adios, arrivederci, and doveejehñah, for I may never know just who’s I am but I will keep searching for who I am the rest of my days. Maybe it’s best that way; I don’t have to be held back by the chains of heritage or custom anymore. It is up to me to write my story from here on and cover my past like one kicks sand on a dying fire. Hell, I could even be Irish!

Author's Note

A young man must make peace with his life and his father... either the Hispanic baker, the Italian milkman, or the Croatian butcher... Ah, life...

Reviews

[Eagle Cruagh]

Perhaps the best story of the Irish that has ever been
written. It is horribly sad, tugs at the heartstrings in every
paragraph. Sick, dissalusioned, melancholy, all of the things
that keep the Irish telling jokes, kidding and singing songs of
love and daring-do.
Perhaps the history of the Irish explains it all. The 'Scandinavian
people invaded and taught them how to fish, giving the Irish their
blonde, good looks, the English over-ran them, but left a language.
The French came over and built the only cathedrals and fancy churches.
The Italians gave them a religion and the Spanish gave them color.
To the credit of the Irish, though they have no idea who they are, they
have fought and will always fight to preserve their identity, they will fight
and love and die because they are Irish.
You have written a composite of the Irish story in your poor, sad story.
It is genius, it is brilliant, I love it---- Thank you!
=---- Eagle Cruagh

[Editor-in-Chief]

This is sooooooooooo awesome!

[PyroKitty24]

Ah, it least it had a rather happy ending! I really did enjoy reading this story, and it was an amazing write and a plot I never would have thought of. Good job!

[Sunflower/Sara Kendrick]

Yes, Craig, I read this one before..Enjoyed it...Thanks for stopping by and reading my work about my day of escape into my imaginary world..Surgery is over and I am back home..Very little pain in my back..They said that it would click in today but has not..They loaded me up with a steroid which may be the reason..They had problems with the endotracheal intubation and my throat, jaws, sinsusis, and larynax are so painful..My throat and mouth are still so dry and hurt...I can hardly talk..Sunflower

[Tate Morgan]

A very honest portrayal of what many of we writers come to find .We are aloof and apart from our families.I suppose this is sad to say the least but it is the sadness that lets us relate to you.As I imagine many who write do so to create their own therapy

[Through the Gateway]

for I may never know just who’s I am
Should be "whose".

Otherwise a very good story, Craig. You ought to try to get this one into a magazine somewhere.

[Linear]

I rarely read stories, so to be held to the final full stop says something for your artistry........Entertaining certainly and yes very well written, yet something was lacking for me.......And I cant put my finger on it, so it's probably just me :O)

[Mel Stevens]

This piece does exactly what a short story should do. Bring a multitude of emotions crashing over the reader in a condensed amount of time. I think your grammar is near perfect...the only thing I could fuss about is your use of semi-colons, but that's just because I have been hounded over my use, haha. Well done.

[Greg Close]

This is an anthology-ready short story. I'm sure there are always tweaks to be tweaked, but it reads well - extremely polished prose, well-thought out premise and progression, theme of identity etc. I am skilled enough at grammar to know it's top-notch, but not quite skilled enough to say it's flawless. A professional editor might be the next step for a piece like this, as my amateur chops don't have enough to offer. Good, engaging, write. (Storyteller Group)

[trainwreck]

Honestly, I don't have even a tiny criticism. This was amazing, and I'm very, very impressed. Great job.

[Jim Parson]

This is wonderful and from a story standpoint, I have nothing to offer you to improve it in any way. It is perfect just the way it is, which is the only thing necessary to say. From a writing standpoint, there are many commas that need to be placed, but that will only become important if you want to sell this for publishing. When and if you decide to try that, I'd be happy to make my suggestions for those. I also found one typo...

"I may never know just who’s I am but I will keep searching for who I am the rest of my days." who's should be whose.

This is just an incredible story. "nuff said.