"Everyone, everybody, every person, every person, every person, every person, every person,"
Artist book
50 pages
2020
Text by Lara Ní Chuirrín
Design by Matthew Quain
Lacuna
by Lara Ní Chuirrín
We sat across from each other in his kitchen, the light above us shining feebly, flickering slightly.
I guess I arrived around six?
By the time we’d finished eating, the world outside was a deep inky blue that seemed to pour through the window behind him, the kind of night sky that if you got too close, it would swallow you up.
You would disappear.
I wonder if I knew then?
Dinner was:
Thick slices of pork, the fat barely crispy,
waxy potatoes,
beans.
The linoleum topped table wobbled as we hacked at the meat in silence.
When our cutlery had clattered down on empty plates, my fingers were greasy and there was bean sauce gathered at the corner of his mouth, trailing into his beard. He began to rise, reaching shakey hands across the table to clear my plate.
‘Don’t, Dad, I’ll do it.’
I stood and grabbed both plates and brought them to the sink as he slowly sat back down again.
‘Put the kettle on, will you?’ His usual post-dinner refrain.
Water poured from the tap into the spout , splashing the dishes now piled in the sink, swirling in the grease of the pork fat.
God. Everything is still so vivid.
Later that evening we went out to the back yard and lit a fire. We lit it in the corner, by the compost bin, and the sweet smell of rotting fruit flesh mixed with the smoke, trundling into the sky.
‘She would have liked this.’ He had said, shielding his eyes from the smoke.
‘Do you?’ I asked, but my voice caught in my throat, barely reaching above a whisper.
He didn’t seem to hear, threw a sod of turf on the fire.
We sat there for ages in the growing cold and I watched the fire fall lower, turn to embers, watched the gentle breeze pick up scraps of ash and carry them to heaven.
His eyes were closed, his lips moving slightly, but when I leaned in closer I couldn’t hear anything.
How long did I stay? I hope long enough.
The moon had given up trying to push through the thick clouds, was now clothed in darkness, a faint yellow hum hanging above us.
‘I’m headin’ off now.’
His eyes shot open.
‘Oh yeah…good lad. Thanks for coming. She’d have liked that.’
I left through the sidegate in the garden, did battle with the rusty bolt for a moment before escaping into a dark estate which sprawled down to the sea.
Project supported by Ealaín na Gaeltachta and Galway Coutny Council.
Artist book
50 pages
2020
Text by Lara Ní Chuirrín
Design by Matthew Quain
Lacuna
by Lara Ní Chuirrín
We sat across from each other in his kitchen, the light above us shining feebly, flickering slightly.
I guess I arrived around six?
By the time we’d finished eating, the world outside was a deep inky blue that seemed to pour through the window behind him, the kind of night sky that if you got too close, it would swallow you up.
You would disappear.
I wonder if I knew then?
Dinner was:
Thick slices of pork, the fat barely crispy,
waxy potatoes,
beans.
The linoleum topped table wobbled as we hacked at the meat in silence.
When our cutlery had clattered down on empty plates, my fingers were greasy and there was bean sauce gathered at the corner of his mouth, trailing into his beard. He began to rise, reaching shakey hands across the table to clear my plate.
‘Don’t, Dad, I’ll do it.’
I stood and grabbed both plates and brought them to the sink as he slowly sat back down again.
‘Put the kettle on, will you?’ His usual post-dinner refrain.
Water poured from the tap into the spout , splashing the dishes now piled in the sink, swirling in the grease of the pork fat.
God. Everything is still so vivid.
Later that evening we went out to the back yard and lit a fire. We lit it in the corner, by the compost bin, and the sweet smell of rotting fruit flesh mixed with the smoke, trundling into the sky.
‘She would have liked this.’ He had said, shielding his eyes from the smoke.
‘Do you?’ I asked, but my voice caught in my throat, barely reaching above a whisper.
He didn’t seem to hear, threw a sod of turf on the fire.
We sat there for ages in the growing cold and I watched the fire fall lower, turn to embers, watched the gentle breeze pick up scraps of ash and carry them to heaven.
His eyes were closed, his lips moving slightly, but when I leaned in closer I couldn’t hear anything.
How long did I stay? I hope long enough.
The moon had given up trying to push through the thick clouds, was now clothed in darkness, a faint yellow hum hanging above us.
‘I’m headin’ off now.’
His eyes shot open.
‘Oh yeah…good lad. Thanks for coming. She’d have liked that.’
I left through the sidegate in the garden, did battle with the rusty bolt for a moment before escaping into a dark estate which sprawled down to the sea.
Project supported by Ealaín na Gaeltachta and Galway Coutny Council.
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