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The Wedding

Don Hynes

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Nov. 5, 2014

Ireland, 1874

 

“We want you to marry us Father.”

What cheek the priest thought

sitting there with a baby in her lap,

asking me to marry them.

“I’ll need to hear your confession first.”

The man flinched, not raising his head;

rough hands kneading his cap, twisting it like rope.

“I’m not sorry for anything,” she said,

except coming here, under her breath.

Bold as brass thought the old priest

though he knew enough to hold his peace.

“There’s something we can all find

if we come to the Lord child”

and it won’t be anything I need

as she remembered the damp cottage

the stink of wool, the rotten vegetables

and the hunger.

“I’ll find something Father

if you’ll make the match”

and a fine one it will be thought the priest

as he looked past them and the baby

down the mud rutted road,

the sky filled with black clouds

and twilight fading.

The man never looked up

as they walked to the church

and the small light of the vestibule.

She knelt with the baby;

when the priest pulled back the screen

she crossed herself and spoke without faltering:

“Bless me Father for I have sinned,

it’s been a while since my last confession.

I’ve wanted what I’ll never have,

what I’ve got I may not keep”

and that was it.

He gave her the usual penance

knowing a thousand rosaries

wouldn’t chip the flint off this one.

The man kept his hand over his mouth

while he mumbled his contrition;

the old priest didn’t have the heart

to say speak up, couldn’t bear his own voice

echoing in the emptiness of the cruciform.

The man may have cared more

but he was beaten harder.

He’d shoulder a burden

but whatever light he’d had was gone out.

She’d carry them both with her fire and fierce will.

The priest called his housekeeper to bear witness;

he didn’t bother about rings

knowing they hadn’t one between them.

“What God has joined together…till death do you part”

as the baby wailed, the hat twisted tighter

and the girl thought the day will come soon enough

as they forced open the wooden door into the growing dark,

the wind raking the leafless trees with cold rain falling.

http://donhynes.com/blog/?p=1778