"September" by Seán Óg

September
Her name was the word for rain. The tips of her fingers pressed into the colourless keys, and from the gruff, petulant piano came the ceol. The song had been taught to her by her grandmother. After all these years, its name had escaped her memory, although its notes had not.
She had told him of Christmases spent with her grandparents in Donegal. When she and her cousins would take turns playing “Star of the County Down,” each cousin attempting to play it faster than the cousin that came before them. Winters were harsh in Gort a Choirce. The Errigal wind was powerful and sharp. They would have frozen to death in that small cottage had it not been for the heat of the burning turf and the warmth of her nana’s heart.
The piano groaned as the song abruptly halted. Her lips twisted up into the side of her face as they often did when she found a thought to be confronting, and as she often did, she tucked her hair behind her right ear and let the left side swing. Her hair was as black as a winter night but for the sparse, silver streaks, stopping just below her jaw.
After rubbing her nose, she placed her fingers back on the keys. His hand went around the back of her neck and his grip tightened softly as she began to play “Tabhair dom do Lámh.” A song she had taught herself, for him.
By the time they left the charity shop, midday had passed. The breeze had gone. The air was thin. The heat was thick and smothering. Her hand slid into his. "You know," she said, "Sometimes after I see you, I listen to a new song. Like, a song I haven't heard before." While she spoke, he watched the straps of her dress resting on her damp, delicate shoulders. "So that any time I hear it in future, I remember. You know, what we did that day and what we talked about."  The squeeze from his hand was familiar and gentle as they approached Great Victoria Street.
He knew her coffee order, having memorised it off by heart, despite barely understanding what it was, like a child reciting their prayers. "It's funny," she had once said, "because you're so particularly terrible at remembering most other things."
Around them, the world progressed, and people lived, without either of them taking any notice. To block the sun from her eyes, he repositioned himself before asking, "Will we go for a drink?” knowing she would say yes.
"Soon enough I won't be able to get a decent stout anywhere. I may as well take advantage of it while I'm here." She said it with a smile, but her eyes were pained, as were his.
"Soon enough," he said, slow and solemn.
That evening, they sat outside Madden’s over two creamy pints. The session inside spilled from the open window like smoke. The day's heat lingered but had grown passive. The welcome breeze had returned. His skin was warm to the touch after being burnt. The bar was silent but for the clinks and clanks and the sole voice of a young woman singing “Here's a Health to the Company,” partly in Gaeilge and partly in Béarla . . .
Here's a health to the wee lass that I loved so well,
For her style and for her beauty, there's none can excel,
There's a smile on her countenance as she sits upon my knee,
There is no man in this wide world as happy as me.
Licking her rollie and sealing it shut, she watched him pat himself down in search of a lighter. From her mouth came his name, sounding perfect, like it belonged there as much as her tongue and her teeth. When he met her eyes then, he caught an intensity in them. Looking as though she might cry, she said softly, almost whispering, "I want to tell you I love you."
At that moment, he could feel his skin from the inside. The hair on his arms lifted slowly and his chest felt empty like his lungs had fallen into his gut. "I want to tell you that I love you too." There was a lump in his throat.
On the train home the following afternoon, her eyes set over the Mournes. The skies opened and the rain cooled the earth, creating complaints from the other passengers. She didn’t mind so much. Having been born in a faraway place, on the first day of the wet season, she found gratitude for the showers.
Her attention was drawn to Sliabh Binneáin, and she thought about how, soon enough, it will be white. The trees will be gaunt and bare. The boiling summer months will be contrasted with a piercing, deathly winter. The sun will be low, the air crisp, and the wind furious. The golden, heathered fields that stretched beyond will be brown and grey. Only a shadow of life will linger. She will be in London, and he will not, and that will be that. Her shelf will hold the books that he gave her, and he’ll have her clothes, and she'll have a battered scrap of paper with her coffee order on it. He had scribbled it down when they first met, so that he wouldn't forget.

Seán Óg

Seán Óg is a literature and history student at Trinity College, Dublin, and a published short-fiction writer. His work is grounded in a sense of realism, often taking inspiration from his own experiences of working-class Ireland. 

Headshot: Liam Ó Beaglaoich

Photo Credit: Staff