Micro fiction by Geraldine McCarthy

Easter Visit

Éamon brings his parents Cadbury’s eggs, although their sense of time is snarled now, a jumble of feasts and birthdays and long-gone anniversaries. The couple are sitting up in the double bed in the converted front room, a bit like the grandparents in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, except there’s only one set. They chat away to one another, mainly about old times, two conversations running parallel, yet the couple seem to find solace in one another’s voices, in their own familiar tones and cadences. 

Whenever Éamon comes to visit, the carer makes tea – strong as tar – and Kimberley biscuits are procured from the back of the press.

‘Are ya alright for money, son?’ the old man asks for the third time.

‘I’m grand, Da, don’t be worrying now.’ 

When the moment is ripe for it, when Éamon perceives a rising agitation – the clutching of bedsheets, the complaint of aching hips – he quietly asks the carer to bring in a basin of warm water. 

‘Now, Ma, ladies first.’

He helps her to perch on the edge of the bed, and places the dish on the ground. She smiles as her feet make contact with the sudsy water. 

‘That’s nice, son. Fair play to you.’

Her hands unclench as she wriggles her toes. You’d think she was at the seaside on a sunny day.

Éamon repeats the whole process with Da. A calmness settles upon the room, a sacred silence.

On his way back to the Parish House, Éamon runs through the homily for the Holy Thursday Mass in his head. It will be a tough one, and an easy one.  He’s going to talk about the washing of feet.