Goodbye Pat agus grmma

Of course Pat was a friend of yours!

How did I not spot the same mischievous coloured magic in your words.
I loved Pat and his poems and his fuckoffy kindness. No time for wasters of life. I only met him once shyly and wrote to the address in the back of one of his books. Admiring with gratitude.

He wrote a lovely card to me and I held on to that as evidence that I could weave if I only believed.
As my mother passed away in pain she asked for two things. Keep the C.D. of the drumming going and keep reading Pats poems until I'm out.

We did. We fucking well did.
The C.D. Player rattling in the tiny hospital room and us roaring laughing reading Pats poems.
Mammy smiled occasionally then got back to her journey.
We watched her ebb slowly out. And still. And gone. And still and gone.
Then through the door into our drumming and poems and Pat and Mammy dead, marched a tiny blackdressed Catholic priest who admonished us in a gruff voice for the noise and told us that Maura wouldn't have wanted that. Oh!

He sushed us out and hit the stop play button.
I smiled and thought to myself, "you can have the corpse little vulture, Maura is soaring free now".

Thanks to Pat and rythum and family and warmth and colour.
Good Bye Pat Ingoldsby. And grmma.