Cathie Borrie A lyrical memoir, “the long hello—memory, my mother, and me” is published by Simon & Schuster & Skyhorse. Poems appear in Tiny Spoon; The Ambidextrous Bloodhound Press; Inannna. Borrie holds a Certificate in Creative Writing from The Writer’s Studio at Simon Fraser University and lives in North Vancouver, B.C.
County Dublin
my grandfather, old, thin, coughing,
leans on a garden hoe, surveying his
bush beans, buttercrunch lettuce, Bloomsdale spinach,
a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips.
fifty years later I weave past the tourists and buskers
on Grafton Street, scanning faces that might connect me
to here.
in Blackrock, I hike Killiney Hill Road
but there’s no sign,
no broken twigs amongst the wild flowers
where, as a boy, he might have played.
in Merrion Square, Sweny’s offers succour,
milk-drowned tea, lemon-scented soap, Joyce-readers,
lilting.
beside the bearded iris my grandfather whistles, then coos,
courting the jay perched in his palm.
Lola
as Airbnb hosts go, Franz is careless with first impressions.
stale flowers on the dining room table, lettuce bits in the fridge.
indifferent to the absence of essential kitchen inventory—kettle,
bottle opener, paring knife.
every afternoon at five he comes by to water the garden, flanked
by his Mexican mutt, Lola. we ask about a corkscrew,
but he waves his hand in the air, laughing, Oh, things just disappear!
we sit on the patio, click a toast, and talk birthplace, travel, bucket list.
Franz leans down, rubs dog-ears
tells the Lola story—
on his way into the hardware store Franz notices everyone
walking past the scrawny, tick-infested dog lying motionless by the door.
he stops.
goes to the car for water, dribbles a capful into her mouth, waits.
dog eyes flicker, tongue laps.
he wife-consults by phone. wraps the dog in a blanket,
lifts her into the trunk, and drives to the vet for meds that will kill the ticks.
fed and watered, that first night she sleeps outside on the grass.
in the morning, Franz bathes her in warm soapy water,
lathering, rinsing, combing, sun-drying, until all the ticks are gone.
evening hints a chill. we drain the last of our beer.
Lola, Franz-gazing, nudges.