False Where are you... we’re waiting The welcoming party await your arrival My teddy commands a place of pride on the top shelf His friends grace the spaces below him Propped up by ABC bricks and spinning tops Mobiles turn and dance for you Waiting to comfort and cheer And lullaby your slumbers All they need is you... Where are you... we’re waiting Bursting to play It’s hard sitting with composure Waiting each day And giggle with pride As they imagine the future as they look inside But something has happened We sense that we know You’re not coming.. are you? What will happen us now? Dumped in the attic or given away Where are you... we’re waitng Just wanting to play Ron isands newsletter 55

False Th e Old Brown Suitcase This old suitcase was made of soft brown leather and had a paisley print of brown and deep red on a cream background. It belonged to my mum but as suitcases were a rarity in our area it was borrowed from time to time for trips to Bray, the Rotunda, Holles Street or the Coombe!!! I was six years old, going on seven when the old brown suitcase was traced to the last borrower and carefully washed over. This always meant that someone was going somewhere. I was aware that my mother had increased in size but that time you did not make comment or ask questions of that nature. I’m not sure at what stage I was told she was going to have a baby. Baby talk was unacceptable around youngsters, to be honest; I knew nothing about pregnancy or childbirth. The brown suitcase was the fi rst indication and later my mum carefully hand washing tiny baby clothes and a row of blue- white boiled nappies blowing on the clothes line. Bits and pieces were added to the folded display and a pretty smell of softness wafted from the old suitcase, which lay opened in a corner of the room. We didn’t ask and we were not told, my brothers, my sisters and me. I expect my older sister knew something but was probably warned to say nothing!! With foggy recollections of a doctor calling to see my mum, the next real moment of impact that I do remember was my Mum was gone. The brown suitcase too. Whispering bounced around our earshot but nothing much said that we could make sense of. “ Your mammy will be back soon” Granny said. I didn’t know that it was worry I was feeling but I know now. We were shared out for the next few days. My Granny and a few good neighbours looked after us while my Dad was at work. He left on his push- bike each morning at 7am and did not return until 6.30pm. It was great to see him come home each day. We had no phone and wouldn’t have known that it was even possible to talk to someone on an apparatus. I often think of that now when I see children with mobile phones. We would have loved to be able to have spoken to her, our mum. Then, off the four bus ( there were only 5 busses out our way each day!!) our mum carrying the old brown suitcase, stepped to the path. We had walked to meet her. There was no explanation of anything, just a very welcome and needed hug. Days passed, good neighbours and friends came and joined in the whispering again. We would hear our mum crying and didn’t know why. The brown suitcase was empty. All the pretty things were gone. My mum was cross and sad and not the bubbly mum we knew before she went off with the brown suitcase. She would sit in a chair and ask my sister Olive and I to brush her hair and look for grey hairs. We brushed and brushed for days and days and it seemed to bring her comfort. My dad would get home each evening and ask us to walk with our mum to the top of the hill. My mum was so pretty and always looked so well but on these short walks she wore an old black coat belonging to my Granny. It really didn’t suit her, she was far to pretty for it ! We hadn’t a clue what was going on for her or my dad. As I got older, I realised my sister had died. My mum had changed. My Dad- he worked so hard that in our precious time with him it was hard to gauge how it was affecting him. Almost thirty years later, my own daughter Ruth died. My part of her story is well documented but the part that is often overlooked is the impact the experience of her lifetime had on my parents. Grandparents are often forgotten. My mum came to see Ruth and cradled her tightly almost a though she was her own. I have often thought about those moments since and wondered what her thoughts were. How did it make her feel never having a chance to hold her own baby? When I brought my little girl home to die my dad got a chance to meet his granddaughter. He embraced his chance to be with her with forceful possession as he had all the other newly arrived grandchildren. I have precious memories of his manly hands cradling her as he hummed his very own lullaby, which he had sung to all the new born’s. He walked the boards for hours, being the ‘ best’ Granddad he could ever be to her. Six weeks we had with her, six weeks of her lifetime possible giving my parents some borrowed time to refl ect on their own little girl. Then the desperate moment of her predicted death happened. My dad sobbed as he related his guilt for his long life and the unfairness of her short life. His deep faith and all the prayer were being challenged. My mum seemed afraid of this bit. It was now too close to her own experience. She knew the journey it was going to be from here on. She was probably remembering how hard it was for her, my dad and her children when my sister died. Then months later, my mum and dad talked as they had never talked about how different it all was when my sister Carol died. Yes we now knew her name. isands newsletter 56