My Uncle Jim
who loved the films of John Wayne
and Celtic Football Club,
who pulled pints and polished glasses
in West Belfast shebeens,
and married Aunt Mary in 1971,
who never fell out with anyone
or borrowed money from friends,
and got teary-eyed whenever we left for the mainland
My Uncle Jim
died one unremarkable evening
in his favorite chair,
watching Celtic beat Rangers
Mary found him the next morning—
cold,
still,
and smiling—
snatched away in the night,
off to that great shebeen in the sky.
Here today, gone tomorrow—
what the Yanks would call “an Irish goodbye.”
they say it’s a blessing to go out like that
and perhaps it is
but blessings aren’t contagious
and the others I witnessed were terrible
my godmother, Sally,
crying and terrified and wasting away with MS
Francie paralyzed and dumbstruck for seven years
before his final, protracted goodbye
Grandma, rendered insensible and delusional
lost in a childish rage
convinced the RUC were at the door
in Blackburn circa 1996
the year the ceasefire broke
her mind did, too
As a young man, I once demanded my ashes
be smeared across the scoring spots
and whore parades of the city’s nocturnal streets—
as if that would make any difference at all
these days, I know better
all I want is no pain,
no forewarning,
no crying loved ones.
(A Rangers defeat would be a bonus, I suppose.)
which brings me full circle
to the place I began: would an overdose
in some squalid Hollywood crack den
be the most elegant solution after all?
at least I’d go out dumbly smiling.
Perhaps – but from where I’m sitting—
this middle-aged writer,
just another ex-junkie
who couldn’t cut the shit
and traded his spike and spoon
for meditation and 0% lager,
who recently gave up sugar
and wondered, for a moment,
if his balls might be the next to go—
Yeah, sure—Mr. Knocking-on-50!
You want to go out with a spike in your arm?
Ha! For all your Live Fast, Die Young posturing
you’ve got nothing left to do but stubbornly cling on!
But… so what?
..
Tony O’ Neill
Picture Nick Victor
.