{"id":46,"date":"2012-04-30T19:38:38","date_gmt":"2012-04-30T19:38:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/?p=46"},"modified":"2012-04-30T19:38:46","modified_gmt":"2012-04-30T19:38:46","slug":"a-taste-from-a-parting-glass","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/?p=46","title":{"rendered":"A taste from a parting glass"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>It caught my eye as I was shown into the crowded parlour room. It had been a going away gift. The mirror sat in a dark burnished frame, fine silk screen lettering declared \u201cPOWERS WHISKEY &#8211; PURE POT STILL\u201d amid ripe ears of grain, ribbons and scrolls. There were memories buried in the craftsmanship, yet what kind of a fool had I been: a bar mirror as a gift? And what had possessed her to keep it?<\/p>\n<p><a href=\"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/?attachment_id=47\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-47\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignright size-full wp-image-47\" title=\"Power's mirror\" src=\"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/04\/ATBBAM12.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/04\/ATBBAM12.jpg 800w, http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/04\/ATBBAM12-150x150.jpg 150w, http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/04\/ATBBAM12-300x300.jpg 300w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\" \/><\/a><\/p>\n<p>The reflection showed a crowd, simple folk, the men and women of a quiet country town gathered in grief. I stood in their midst, a fox among chickens. There was a hand on my arm.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Michael,\u2019 It was Father Ned Gilligan, my best friend from school, though now he looked twenty years my senior.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Ned!\u2019<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>There was genuine warmth in the way he took my hand. \u2018My God, Michael, it\u2019s great to see you. Must be thirty years.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>\u2018More like forty, Ned.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>\u2018You\u2019ve never the once been home?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>He began a litany of those from our school who had passed on. I gazed about the parlour, the red velour chairs and burnished oak table; she might have sat here evenings. I wondered if our last night had danced before her eyes, as she drowsed.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Will you not stay, Michael?\u2019 Mary, beautiful, melodious, pale. The bar in O\u2019Neills was quiet yet, the snug warm from the fire, fragrance of turf mixing seductively with the aroma of cloves.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Sure, it\u2019ll be no time, and I\u2019ll be sending for you.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Ah, you\u2019re all words.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>\u2018I mean it, Mary, I\u2026 I\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>In the mirror, her eyes, mischievous as two black kittens.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Oh, Michael. Sure don\u2019t I love you!\u2019<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>I made my fortune in commodities, but not until I had spent twenty five years working eighty hour weeks, too scared to take a holiday in case my positions went south. Mary had written, daily at first, weekly, then monthly.\u00a0 She understood if I was too busy ever to reply. After ten years she had other news. She sent me an invitation to the wedding, knowing I would not come.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>The mirror changed again, and I saw Mary and me, as we might have sat on cold evenings in our parlour. I saw our children bringing in tea, neighbours calling for a chat and a drop. Measuring our wealth, not in dollars, but in each other.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>Ah, Mary\u2026 Maybe my fortune was my misfortune?<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>Ellen, her granddaughter, asked if I wanted a drink. She had Mary\u2019s eyes, that little lilt in her voice, as if every day was a carnival.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>\u2018A hot whiskey,\u2019 I choked. \u2018Powers, if you have it.\u2019<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>It caught my eye as I was shown into the crowded parlour room. It had been a going away gift. The mirror sat in a dark burnished frame, fine silk screen lettering declared \u201cPOWERS WHISKEY &#8211; PURE POT STILL\u201d amid ripe ears of grain, ribbons and scrolls. There were memories buried in the craftsmanship, yet [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-46","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/46","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=46"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/46\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":49,"href":"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/46\/revisions\/49"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=46"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=46"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gooseberryseason.com\/wp\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=46"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}