Our Fourth

“It might be time to move her to a bigger pot—or return her to the ground where she can truly take hold. To let her stretch into her potential and become what she’s meant to be."

 

“What?”

 

"The shamrock"

 

 “Put her in the ground. It’s time.” says Joe.

 

There was a time when such parallel thinking would have given me the heebie-jeebies. I would have interpreted it as something sinister. Exhaustion has a way of leaving the mind vulnerable to conspiracy theories and flights of imagination. Now, with balance restored, I understand that two people can simply find themselves on the same wavelength, especially when they share a life together. Married couples often think alike, and nowadays those couples come in all forms. I think it's wonderful that Ireland led the way, becoming the first country to legalise same-sex marriage by popular vote.

 

I love my family. My children's sexual orientation would make no difference to me, nor would their decision to change their body if that was what they needed to be happy. Love is unconditional. I love all my children equally—not because of who they are, but because they are my children. They make me proud every single day, simply by being themselves.

 

Our eldest daughter is already in receipt of her letters. I glance over at the photo of her—cap and gown, holding that piece of paper. A proud moment, for any parent. And the second daughter is well on her way. Two years in, two to go. I never got the chance to go to college. A secretarial course after the Leaving Certificate, and then a bus—destination unclear—following in my brother’s footsteps toward the big city and bright lights. Ah, my brother. The school of hard knocks—that’s what my husband and I call our education. He wasn’t given the chance either, though he got his papers in carpentry. A noble trade. If it was good enough for our Lord. But Joseph has moved up the ladder of life. A management position now—sharing his wisdom with those who follow behind him. And as they say, be kind to everyone you meet on the way up as you may meet them again on the way down.

 

Such is life—full of ups and downs. And Joseph is kind. Perhaps to a fault. I don’t think I have that same kindness in me. Maybe I did once—when I put everyone before myself. But I’ve learned, lately, to be a little more… selfish. Though selfish isn’t the right word. Just less inclined to place everyone else above me.

 

The knocks in life have taught me to prioritise myself a little more. And maybe it has less to do with illness, and more to do with timing. My two girls are already flying the nest. And my son—he’ll be a man in two years. The size of him…already a giant of a man. But the maturity still that of a boy as he makes the transition. My heart is broken by the phone calls from his school. The pranks he’s pulled. My little jokester. Trying to find his place among his peers. The pressure on children today is beyond what we knew—with the internet and social media. I'm a cunt when I first get that call from the principal. But once the consequences are in place, I tell myself—this will be a life lesson for him. That is my hope. The girls were so much easier, in that way. They were hungry for learning, for good grades. And they put in the work. They earned their points—and their places in college.

 

It’s a far cry from my homework days. Last-minute work done in front of the telly—one eye on the copybook, the other waiting to see who shot JR.

 

Still, I made something of myself without a fancy degree. But I want more for mine. Even my joker has great potential—if only he’d put his head down and step away from the video games.

 

And maybe college isn’t for him, as it isn’t for everyone.

 

Maybe he’ll follow in his father’s footsteps as a carpenter. My husband says: he hasn’t got the hands to mould shite—though he says it with a cheeky grin like he couldn't care less either way as long as he finds his calling. What does it really matter? As a parent, you just want your children to be happy and healthy in life. And we all find our purpose in the end.

 

Talk about purpose. I must love ye and leave ye—my bread-and-butter job calls. Wages to be paid. A fair day's wage for a fair day's work. I work for a farmer. My father would have liked me to marry one. But it was a carpenter who caught my eye.  A marriage is not always confined to the traditional image of a loving couple. We speak of being married to our work, of having a work wife or work husband. The language may be playful, but it points to the same idea: commitment, shared purpose, and the desire to build something worthwhile together. Whether in love, friendship, family, or work, the goal is often the same—to nurture something beyond ourselves and leave it better than we found it.

 

I sometimes feel as though I'm cheating on my husband when I'm with my polar opposites, Mary and the devil. Yet it feels less like an affair and more like a strange marriage of minds. We spend our days in conversation, arguing, teasing, provoking, and inspiring one another. Together, we give shape to the thoughts that drift through my head. It is a creative intimacy—a constant exchange of ideas—where opposing voices meet in the middle and negotiate their way onto the page.

 

But reaching that middle ground is no easy trek. Everyone seems hell-bent on having it their way or the highway.

 

I suppose my passion for writing is not unlike other people's passions in life. We keep tossing ideas around, turning them over and examining them from every angle, until we find a solution that brings peace of mind to whatever conflict lies within.

And miracles do not simply happen by magic; they require work. Mary once told me that Jesus was not born performing miracles. Like any craft, it took practice. People often thought him crazy as he knelt in the mud, moulding birds from clay and willing them to rise from the ground and fly into the sky.

 

Sometimes I feel a little like Jesus—not because I can perform miracles, but because, like him, I have changed direction in life. He left behind the trade he was raised in to pursue a different calling, one that many around him struggled to understand.

 

Mine was less of a calling and more of a shove. But however, I got here, I'm here now, so I must see it through to the end. The saying is "the bitter end," though I'm holding out hope for the lesser of two evils

 

A kiss in one garden led to two deaths.
Two men, hung from two trees.
Two sons lost.
Two mothers left to grieve.

One name would be remembered as a saviour. The other, as a traitor.

Now both names are spoken lightly, tossed into everyday language as though neither life carried weight.

Part of a plan—or a story told by four men.

 

Such a loss reminds me of my parents.

 

My older brother taken too soon.

 

Their will power to keep going.

 

I see it now, their struggle.

 

The seventeen-year-old me not mature enough of mind to know it.

 

My parents were first-generation farmers, more familiar with toil than theory—not unlike Eve and Adam cast out of paradise. They worked the land to keep a roof over our heads and our bellies full. Anything beyond that was a bonus.

 

And there were bonuses—though I only see them now through the lens of a parent.

 

Or dare I say, as a writer.

 

My parents gave me more than memories, good and bad—such is life. I know now I inherited my mother’s ear for what isn’t said, and my father’s gift of the gab. A story is as dull as dishwater if you don’t give it legs—and he knew how to spin a good yarn.

 

I hear myself telling those same stories to my children, adding my own embellishments for effect. In turn, I hear them retell them among their friends—laughing at the ridiculousness of the generation gone before.

 

I only smile at their naivety, knowing their place in the world will one day be the punchline for the next.

I’m not sure who is writing these words—

 

Maryam, the devil, or me.

Maybe there is a fourth.

If there is, it is in the background, like a shadow cast by the sun at my back. Only this one doesn’t belong to my body.