8/12/2019 Propinquity 500

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Propinquity

Sister Idas pallor was the beige of a worn sock, or a compunctious womans wedding dress. She was

eighty-two, and didnt look a day below ninety-three. I wondered why mum insisted on smuggling

cigarettes into the hospice. It was a primitive kind of euthanasia, administered by a secretly

vindictive niece who clung bitterly to the memory of 72, when her chain-smoking Aunt admonished

her for her spare-tyre in front of Seamus Good-looking OToole. Rural Irish communities arent

conducive to imaginative nick-naming. Shes dying anyway, mum exclaimed,sotto voce. Ida turned

in her deathbed homage to Bauhaus if Im being nice about it, and focused her attention on me.

You dont say much, she said. Shes 15, mum retorted, rationalizing my gaucheness.

Ida decided to bestow upon me her wisdom. Maureen, she began. My name is not Maureen.

Men think they know it all. I anticipated an epiphany; words to catalyse a profound change in my

life, before Ida nobly took one for our Lord. Nothing came. She looked at mum, then at me,

expecting applause. I couldnt help asking, Is that why you became a nun? Mum gave me a sharp

look. Ida stared at me for a moment, like a curious baby examining a mirror. Yes, she said. That

shut me up.

That evening, in my Di-Caprio-shrine of a bedroom, I mused. Mum entered. Ida gave me this for

you. It was a weathered violin case, adorned with tacky, half-peeled stickers labelled with various

European cities. Its a violin, said mum, floating off in a Shiraz-induced haze. I opened the case,

half-expecting a flock of moths to fly out, or the ghost of Paganini manifest in a cloud of dust.

It was very old Violin the light brown hue transformed into an earthy red at the base, near the

chinrest. I picked it up carefully, anxious that it might break. Something flat and yellow caught my

eye. It was a letter, hidden underneath. I picked it up. To my Dearest friend Ida, from Maureen.

December 6, 1943.

She was a great fiddle-player Ida said, when I mentioned the note at our next visit. Thanks for the

Violin, I said. Ida looked confused, But you gave methe violin, she bleated. Mum opened up a

discussion about the imminent remake of Dallas.

That night I opened the case again, pushing aside the softened felt. There was another note.

Dearest Ida, I am sorry that you dont agree with me concerning my impending marriage. I realise

that I will be giving up my musical aspirations at Geoffreys request, but it is my best hope of a

positive future. I do wish we could be together, but this is what is expected of me, and it is my duty asa wife. I am leaving you my most-treasured possession. With love, Maureen.

I visited Ida on my own the next day. For gods sake Maureen, she barked. Why did you give it up

for that eejit? I understood this time. What did you expect me to do? I asked, Become a nun?

She laughed, probably for the first time in years.