The bright rose

“When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.”

The bonds forged in childhood remain forever grappled to our souls “with hoops of steel.” Memories of the halcyon days of my youth are eternally entwined with summer holidays spent with my maternal aunt, uncle and their five children.
I have written before of the sights, sounds and scents of those blissful, idyllic, childhood summers. My memories are redolent of a brimming rain-barrel, mysterious wells, apple-scented haggards, Emerald Toffees produced from my loving uncle’s bottomless pocket and a basin of fresh water, scented soap and a fragrant towel outside the cottage on a stone seat, reminiscent of The Stone Outside Dan Murphy’s Door.
Our childhood games were played both to the backbeat of my grandfather playing the fiddle and the cheerful whistle of trains speeding by right outside the cottage. Above all, I recall the obvious love between my aunt and uncle and how she became as hysterically excited as a love-struck teenager when she heard the clip, clop of my uncle’s gentle pony, complete with shiny trap, as he returned from his out-farm late at night. No matter how late, the family rosary was recited – and the endless litany.
“And it is a holy thing, and it is a precious time” to re-visit, so to speak, that blessed, loving home, re-created by the next generation. You see, for years I’ve been twice blest, it being my honour and pleasure to call to the youngest of those five cousins, his gentle, welcoming wife and four beautiful daughters whenever I am in the vicinity. Because he and his brother work and live so closely together, I get to see both cousins each visit. My heart soars with pure joy every time, driving into their yard. They are busy men, extremely busy but never once too busy to greet me whole-heartedly, arms outstretched, and join me for a cuppa in the cosy, intimate, fun-filled kitchen.
So, all that sounds like a fairy-tale? It is not. Indeed, the fairy-tale continues. My cousin’s amiable, quietly-spoken wife (with a mischievous, twinkling streak) is the most natural-born home-maker I know.
In her unobtrusive, calm manner and by some sleight of hand, the most delicious, feather-light scones magically appear from the oven following lunch, complemented with home-made jam and cream. And apple tart. And everything.
The beautiful daughters appear – and disappear. Friends and neighbours of the girls, their parents and their uncle appear – and disappear – with dizzying regularity. Rapid-fire conversation, banter and hilarious laughter are the hallmark of every visit. You know what? I believe we never get to finish a sentence, such is the repartee. In Benedictus, John O’Donohoe precisely and succinctly summarises my feelings about that home:
“…When in a certain location, great love or kindness happens; it imprints itself on the ether of the place. When we pass there, hungry and needy in spirit, that loving imprint shines on us like an icon…”
Now, how to describe the four gorgeous daughters? Sometimes when I called, they were preparing for a special occasion – a debs’ ball, a hunt ball, a dinner dance. One for all and all for one… No matter whose occasion it actually was, all were involved in the make-up, the nail varnish, the hairstyle, the dress.
The eldest one, she, as quiet and gentle as her mother, is a second mother to everybody. The second eldest, living now in my mother’s home of those idyllic summers, invited us to please call “no matter how late.” We did call – late – and I recollect how she confided that her mother was her “best friend”. The third daughter also, naturally, possesses the trademark family warmth and graciousness. Then there was the youngest…
This summer, I had the pleasure of calling to that wonderful home twice. On the last occasion, she was the only daughter present, smilingly waiting outside with the four dogs to welcome me. Her father and uncle bounded in, greeting me with their customary exuberance. The mother – magically – produced the delicious scones. Expressing my enjoyment, I was informed there was a scone-making competition in progress between mother and daughter. I observed this precious daughter hugging her uncle – a second father to them all – arms tightly, affectionately, round his neck. 
It would be superfluous to describe my grief when this bright rose died tragically. The anguish of her shocking loss to her exceptional family, adored uncle and extended family is inestimable.  

“…Gradually, you will learn acquaintance
With the invisible form of your departed…”
And you will “be able to enter the hearth
In your soul where your loved one
Has awaited your return
All the time.” (John O’Donohoe)