The world is becoming smaller and smaller …
We make weekly visits to our wee mum (in-law) up the North, to keep her company, take her out for coffee, shop for cakes and to people watch; fear of falling has ruled out trips to town on her own.
Beloveds, friends and neighbours disappear, as if spirited away. Short-term memory has been snatched, a daylight robbery as grievous as Ireland’s 19thcentury window tax, a tax on light, bricking up views from kitchens, bedrooms and settees. At 96, the gathering darkness blankets her knees, always cold, skin fragile as a butterfly’s wings, purple rivulets struggling to and from the heart. Dear heart. Mum’s questions (and our answers) are looped; everything old is new again. And again. And again again. Our Apple playlist is curated to obviate her fretting. Car journeys typically begin with Ray Charles belting out “Hit the Road Jack” or Judy singing “We’re Off to See the Wizard”. We might ask Siri to play Perry Como’s “Catch a Falling Star” and “Magic Moments”; mum recounts sitting down in front of the TV with dad (“Papa Loves Mambo”) to watch Perry Como’s Kraft Music Hall. If we’re feeling sassy, we cherrypick from the Tom Jones oeuvre, starting with “What’s New, Pussycat?” and “It’s Not Unusual”, throwing in “Delilah”, the controversial yet irresistible anthem of violence against women because, well, you try not to sing along with an anguished Tom Jones at the climactic chorus: “My, my, my Delilah. Why, why, why Delilah?” When we have to leave her in the car to pick up her meds, we tease her by pumping up the volume and leaving the windows open for the extended live version of Harry Belafonte’s signature call and response “Day-O” (The Banana Boat Song). On the way back to our own house in the Irish midlands, a three-hour drive, we play Mariah Carey’s 2001 cover of the 1982 hit “Last Night a DJ Saved My Life” on repeat.
“Oh, how I hate to see October go.”
Johnny Mercer
Our wee mum has trouble sleeping, despite bedtime anti-anxiety and sleeping tablets. She tells us she often visits the empty bedrooms and looks outside, into the dark neighbourhood. She says she sometimes walks up the driveway in her nightdress, to the gate, looking into the headlights of the odd passing car. Does she? When October goes, the gathering darkness shortens all of our days. It’s been a month or so since swallows gathered on wires overhead, taking test flights, twittering among themselves, gathering the nerve to brave the perilous journey. Brave hearts. If/when our wee mum walks up the driveway to the gate in her nightdress, is she gathering the nerve to brave the perilous journey through the darkness, towards the light?
When October goes, retailers will offer deeply discounted Halloween tchotchkes, the Yiddish word for tat/trinkets/knickknacks or, in the Irish vernacular, a load o’ shite. The Celtic roots of Halloween are celebrated via the festival of Samhain, roughly halfway between the autumn equinox and winter solstice, marking the transition from summer to winter, from the world of the living to the spirit world. Bonfires blaze to honour and appease Celtic gods in the hope of influencing a bountiful harvest and to ward off malevolent souls mingling with the living. Our wee mum loves a good bonfire, preferably with a singalong, especially when the dog bites, when the bee stings, when she’s feeling unutterably sad: “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens …” @susanzelouf
1. I’M BURNISHING my reputation in gauzy ombré Peter Do SS25, dyed using leaves/tree bark/earth.
2. I’M CARVING my own path in a Maison Alaia balloon skirt.
3. I’M RIDING into the sunset in a Ruslan Baginskiy fedora.
4. I’M BAGGING a pre-loved Bindle bag by The Row via Vestiaire Collective.
5. I’M SADDLING up in Norma Kamali’s faux leather trenc from Cloth Base.
6. I’M TIGHTENING my handmade leather and brass belt from De Bruir.
7. I’M ADOPTING Valentino Knotty pupprint mules at Editorialist.
8. I’M BITING a 9ct gold carnelian diamond Bullet Pendant by Edge Only.
9. I’M STARING at the waning sun through Bottega Veneta BV1345S tortoiseshell aviators from Mia Burton.
10. I’M SMILING in the face of adversity in Charlotte Tilbury’s K.I.S.S.I.N.G Lipstick in Night Crimson.
11. I’M ILLUMINATING dark days with a Copperfish Tua wall lamp.
12. I’M LISTENING to Nancy Lamott sing the lyrical songs of Johnny Mercer.
13. I’M DEFINING ineffable sensibilities, per The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.
14. I’M RUMINATING on Carol Hodder’s Night Wharf from her recent show “At the End of the Day” at Solomon Fine Art Dublin.
15. I’M TREATING our wee mum to tea and scones at Marksies.
