Thursday, 5 September 2013

Ón lá seo amach.

Before sunrise I get up, pulling on jeans and a warm sweater.  I tie my hair back quickly and follow him outside, down the path. We don't talk much, except when I confirm I hear him when he warns me of a slippery spot where the rain has left pools of water turning the boards slick at the top of the steps. It's not as if I can fall, I'm on the inside holding the railing. My left hand is held tightly in his right. His left hand carries the bottle.

When we reach the bottom he lets go. It's much more difficult to balance along the tops of the smooth wet rocks all the way across the upper beach at high tide but if anyone can manage it, we can. As long as it's not on an incline I will stay steady. Sometimes it's a blessing being an acrobat but mostly it's a curse.

When we get to the higher ground the sun brings the light forth. He tugs his top hat down a little tighter over his curls, untwists the wire holding the cork down and aims far out to sea. The cork shoots like a cannon into the waves and he lets the foam pour into the surf for a quick minute before taking a long gulp of champagne.

He turns back, giving me the bottle. I take it with both hands around the bottom and take a sip. He waits until he thinks I have had enough to make it a proper toast and then he says something I can't remember the translation for but I know it's a wish for good luck from this day forward.

I smile, passing the bottle back. He takes another sip and reaches down with one arm, pulling me in close against him, turning me so that we are forehead to chin. He looks down and I look up.

Happy forty-eighth, Locket. 

Thank you, Peanut. It is, indeed. With his bottle-hand, he indicates the sun now rising steadily into the sky, blinding us, turning the water from pewter to gold.