Seán Walsh: Pen Pal

Pen Pal

I lived a lot in my head, as a lad.

Like, I was the last in the – 

brothers and sisters well ahead of me. 

They were stretching their wings 

while I was still in the nest –

if – if y’know what I mean…

I didn’t know them. I didn’t really know them.

And my Dad was away a lot and my mother 

working the pub during the war years,

trying to make ends meet.

So I – I lived in a world of me own… 

Well, like, you won’t believe this

but I used to write letters.

To, to the Little Flower. ‘God’s truth.

Saint Teresa of, of Lisieux.

‘Every few nights. Two, three pages.

With the fountain pen I got for Christmas.

No matter how cold it was in that bedroom.

And I’d leave them folded 

under her statue on the tallboy

before getting under the blankets…

God only knows what became of them.

Dumped, I suppose, like a lot of stuff

when the family home was sold off…

And here’s a thing:

whenever now I go into a Church

she’s nearly always there, 

to one side or another,

standing with the bunch of roses…

And I wonder does she still remember

the lad that wrote to her

many’s the winter night 

all those years ago?..

Sure, how could she forget?!

And I think, maybe, she might

just get me into Heaven 

by a side door – when – 

when the time comes…

Seán Walsh