One Irish Rover.. Sinful Sunday

Every one has that once upon a time and this is mine.

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Once Upon A Time in a fern shrouded house standing in elegant decay, down in New Orleans, I met a boy called Tim. He was a blue eyed- blacked haired rover, a sailor and the instigator of all my laughter for one year of my 20s. He had a glove fit with my merry band of fellows and told stories of mermaids and mist covered islands. The lure of sailing grand mystical wooden sailboats that lived in the far Pacific Northwest. He was of the deep sea, built it seemed from the various limbs of evergreen trees.  I still recall he smelled like a different brine from my swamps and streams.  He felt like a dark beckoning adventure with his pretty looks and his storied past. His smile had a hint of crazy from drinking too much, as one is want to do when slipping into the tentacle embrace of Miss New Orleans.  He whored around a good bit, a pirate son’s lot and fancy, causing me to watch closely not to lose my heart in his bed sheets.

At this time in New Orleans and Coastal Louisiana… You either had a boat or knew someone who did, or knew someone who knew someone who had a boat or plainly spoken you were a hermit and had no friends. It was time of the water, young lust and forever songs. This was just such a chapter when Tim and I sailed off into the Gulf of Mexico, punting our care for company back to land.

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His pirate father’s bandanna tied round his head, he held the wheel and dreamt of different waters. Master of the wheel, the wind bent to his command. I was an accomplished sailor and he made me feel a rube. We listened to the sirens sing as they lapped against the bow. The sun colored us until we matched the teak trim. We hit blue water and we went astray in our intentions. For just a very mad time  we gave into Neptune and became a constrictor knot. A simple and steadfast hold fell over our hearts.

Constrictor knot

On the waterfront of Seattle, 20 odd years after that time in our lives. We stayed awake all night drinking local wine and playing remember when.

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A sepia image of us sat on the floor, reflecting in the low light of bedroom suite’s plate glass … as I reached forward  and brushed a lock of his long, still ink black hair that fell into his eyes. He grinned, as if no time had passed since I’d last done that. I told him my son most adored the black and white pic of us as we pulled back into harbor, ending that fateful trip. That My mother had blown it up and told me, for the first time that I looked beautiful… I opened my mouth to say a thousand things I’d thought thru the years. And shut it, for times… pass.

I took a sip of wine, and never thinking that he would actually remember the song I had never been able to forget, I whispered sang…

‘Tell me the story now
Now that it’s over
Wrap it in glory
For one Irish Rover’

and he leaned in and sang back

‘Tell me you wiser now
Tell me you older
Wrap it in glory
For one Irish Rover’

All those years ago, in  the kind of bar they write books about, he had professed his love to me and being a girl who was always told she was just not quite enough to a young women left behind,  I didn’t believe enough in me to believe that a man like him could be so…In Love.

‘I can tell by the light in your eye
That you’re so far away
Like a ship out on the sea
Without a sail, you’ve gone astray’

So I sent him back to his Pirate Father’s den of sin, where Tim’s sails slept folding him within, on the mermaid infested shores of  islands that grew such a legend of a man. It cost me much to do that. But New Orleans was the kind of town that would eat him alive, without the warm softness of a good woman to steer his rudder.

Time past…

Every once a while, a tale would pass through of where Tim sailed, the rabbit holes he fell down, the loves with which he shared his evergreen limbs with.. The children that became his. The woman that finally stopped his roving feet. And even the mystery of running into him in serendipitous places over the decades was not enough to quell the hunger. The haunting story yet without a finish, memories that cannot be contained even in a well of green ink…

‘Tell me the facts real straight
Don’t make me over
Wrap it in glory
For one Irish Rover
Tell me you see the light
Tell me you know me
Make it come out alright
And wrap it in glory

On that rocking boat, as we sat, a sunburned waif & a buccaneer’s son wrapped in the kind of clean pristine white sheets that feel like a lover’s kiss.. we sipped stolen whisky, anger and love swirling over us like cigarettes smoke. The beat up tape player crooned One Irish Rover…

Breaking the still air with his heated tone, he announced with much conceit that one day.. I would tell the story of him, as was my way.  That this song would forever haunt me. He vowed to be remembered.

For one Irish Rover
For one Irish Rover
For one Irish Rover
For, one Irish Rover
For, one Irish Rover.

He was right, I never forgot him and he never forgot me. All the years I wrote letters to him, in my signature ink. Never sent, folded neatly in a place marked reserved. He took to a different type of ink. A small red headed mermaid holding a fluer de lis on his left arm across from his heart.

Yet here we sat, time erasing the beauty of what once was with the smooth driftwood of what remains. And its the kind of moment that makes you weigh the choices and roads you have taken in your life. And you find that in being a cherished memory that it softens the sting and regret fades. You tell tales of what you have seen. You recall a moment when you were dying and you could smell his brine . He tells you how at the fleeting glance of every redhead, he would pause wondering if it was you.

At the end of the grey, as the dawn kisses the water signalling that it ready to be seen. We stood on a pier. Tim laughed and said..”Do u remember when I said one day you would tell the story of me?” I nodded unable to speak again  without crying at the sheer poignant truth of  his fortune telling. His eyes welled and he asked to kiss me. A kiss so sweet, wrapped in the glory of the mystical past of One Irish Rover.

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                                                                My Sinful Sunday Image

Sinful Sunday

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11 thoughts on “One Irish Rover.. Sinful Sunday

  1. I hesitate to write anything in order not to risk taking away from the sheer poetry and beauty of your words and memories. You write exquisitely well and weave an aura poignancy around these events. Thank you for sharing with us this special memory.

    With love and respect,

    BL

    Liked by 1 person

  2. How can I not love you with that heart? Just a few days now baby. I surely do love that you used that photo.

    Show me the way home, honey.

    Xx Sully

    Liked by 1 person

  3. You have such an incredible way with words – everything you write, even the mundane, takes on the magickal wash of a fairy tale.

    Liked by 1 person

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