Shannon Airport - Little essay

LambsEye

Hi Guys. Constructive criticism always welcome.


Shannon Airport

I have never understood why people rush to the baggage claim. It's Ireland; when you arrive at the claim your suitcase will not be patiently rotating on the conveyor belt awaiting your reunion, it's Ireland, that doesn't happen in Ireland. Certainly Germany, probably France, but definitely not Ireland.

I'm handing my passport to the immigration official and while I should be solidly looking him in the eye, assuring him of my non-terrorist intentions, I'm staring at his nose. What an horribly wonderful Irish nose; I'm eyeing the cavernous nostrils sprouting quivering hairs. His is a protuberance that knows a fine whiskey, that has been pointed into many a pint. It is a bulb of of pink, spidery veins against a pocked, red landscape.

I'm waiting for my bag of course. My bags never come out first, I made my peace long ago that I would never be one of those lucky, smug bstards, snapping up their bags after a mere minute's wait. I'm waiting and a child is screaming.

You're getting a kick out of this aren't you Martin?

Do you remember when Dave and Mattie came down from Leitrim, and you were all heading over to the estates being built by the church? The houses were still just shells and every now and then a builder would leave some tape measure or hard hat lying around? Oh man remember how I begged, and mam made you bring me along? Jesus I was a pain. You flashed me that look and I knew I was getting the ****e kicked out of me later.

I should never have cried but I told you I needed to go. I asked you to turn around so I could run back to the house but I knew you'd all just peg it. When I felt the sickly damp warmth spread down my shorts I could have puked but instead I cried. Well you got your wish and ye all went alone. I went home. You never mentioned it though, I thought I'd get a slagging but you said nothing.

I'm thinking about Jake, and how he wet his pants that day in Fort Tryon park.

I'm trying to calculate the time difference, we've five hours behind. Ok. So it's about 11am. At this point the sun will just be bearable and the garbage won't have heated up yet, there'll be no smell until around 1pm. Grace will drop the kids into 42B and take a jog down 204th onto Broadway, I'm with her as she goes. I'm her rhythmic breathing; in through the nose, out through the mouth, I'm her soles slapping off the sidewalk, I'm her increasing heartbeat. I'm her, inhaling the roasting nuts over the barrel on the street, hearing the rapid Spanish sounding like an argument but isn't. I'm there. I'm not here.

I'm seeing my bag approach and I'm jostling for position. My trolley has a bandy wheel and I'm wheeling the uncooperative piece of crap slowly towards the customs exit. The green exit if you have nothing to declare. I'm exiting the doors, I'm experiencing that fleeting panic, quickly turning to relief when I don't immediately see them. If they're not here I can turn around. I can get the first plane back to JFK and I don't have to do this.

Her face is shocking. They're both filling my vision and of course they are here. They have been here for around an hour, had a perfunctory cup of tea and settled in to warily eye the Arrivals board. They took position in front of the Arrivals gate about fifteen minutes before the plane landed. They are altogether unchanged and entirely new.

I'm hugging her and wondering when the hell she became so small. Martin, did you see this happen? She's drawing back and looking at me, drinking in my face in that "Mam of an immigrant way." I'm hugging the old man. He's not saying anything. Mam's doing enough talking for the two of us.

I'm carrying the whiskey. The old man insists on lifting the heavy cases unassisted into the boot, Mam insists of letting me take the front.

We're driving. The shock has worn off and so words like "funeral" can be bounded around in unchoked voices. I'm looking out the window. I'm seeing Bunratty castle and I'm four, visiting with the aunts from America. I'm too afraid to go into the dungeon and Martin is slagging me. I'm nineteen, downing the last of my pint in Durty Nellies and ringing Martin for a lift home. I'm begging him but we both know he's going to do it. Ireland is the same. It feels like breaking up with a girl in my teens and meeting her years later to find her unchanged but irrevocably different: like she doesn't know me.

We're passing the church. The estate is built and has been standing for over forty years. The houses look dated.

We're approaching the house. I will sleep. I will eat the sausages, the type of which I haven't tasted in six years. I will talk to Mam and maybe she will cry. I will read the paper with Dad. Friday I will read the prayer. I will walk with the weight of my brother's coffin on my shoulder. I will murmur and accept consolations. I will eat sandwiches. I will answer questions about my family. I will inhabit a role I have not played for years: son, nephew, cousin.

Brother.

I will go back to Shannon Airport and return home. Then in time, I will do it again.

angelll

I like it The only thing i can say is the very last sentance,'in time i will do it again',is not exactly what i would put as he's coming home for a funeral...or do you mean in time when his parents die he will do it again? Oh and the second 'it's ireland' doesn't need to be there in the first paragraph i think.

LambsEye

Thanks Angell!

With the last line I meant it in the way that he's at the stage of his life now where he'll be coming home more and more to attend funerals. I wanted to make returning home a non-joyous experience for him.

I repeated the "it's Ireland," phrase to drive home how unhappy he is to be back in Ireland. It's meant to convey just one of the many things he doesn't like about being back home in Ireland, and he's mulling it over in his head.

Anyway, cheers for the feedback. Much appreciated!

LambsEye

Sad Face. Would have loved more feedback.

Denry

Thoughtful, poignant too. There's something about coming back for a funeral that forces us to acknowledge that we're all for the coffin some day.

I'm not sure about the part with Grace. I am Grace's sweaty sports bra. I am Tylor Durden. The piece doesn't need it and to my mind rather than add to it, it feels a little self-indulgent and at worst, forced.

That said, well done, it makes a reader think.

LambsEye

Thanks Denry!

I was unsure about that part to be honest! I guess where I was coming from was trying to convey his sense of trying to detach from the situation he's in.