Sean O’Connor

C’mon

such a hot day!
the stream near Dad's grave
barely a trickle

We were holding hands when the first bomb went off. It was big. Its roar boomed building to building through the city centre, cracking through streets in all directions. Impossible to know where it was, or where to go to escape it. Yet your hand in mine did not register the slightest alarm. No flinch, no squeeze, no letting go, nothing. You looked around without slowing. We walked through a dazed crowd, most of them rooted to the spot, bewildered, confused, stunned by a moment of electrifying fear, then suddenly animated, brisk in every direction. 

And sirens screamed, and soldiers appeared. An open jeep slinks around a corner, weapons pointing everywhere, and in my mind I think Duck Egg Green, the colour of the tiny tin of paint you had just bought me for my Airfix models. 

Then it happens, a soldier, one soldier, turns his gun on me, points his rifle into my eyes as they drive by, and he pivots to keep the gaze of the weapon on me, on my face.

over the graveyard
the shadow of a hawk
all birdsong stops

That’s when I squeezed your hand, do you remember? That’s when I whispered Daddy, when you gently jerked my hand to pull me back into pace, the pace of your walking, of our walking, and your voice said to me C’mon.

Within minutes the second bomb exploded. It seemed louder. Somebody screamed—a woman. There were a lot of people talking now; like they were arguing. And on we strode, out of the city centre, as cool as you like, with panic growing around us. 

The buildings became lower after a while so that we could tell the direction of the third blast, somewhere to our left. We didn’t even pause until we got to the top of the rise where the railway station was. When we looked back we could see where the bombs had gone off from their columns of smoke, some black, some grey. 

How strange it is, the details we remember. You bought two bananas and paper cups of English tea. We had them on the train while we waited for it to leave the station. No one spoke. We were home in time for the nine o’clock news which said that at least 20 bombs had gone off. It looked so different on our black and white telly. 

Anyway, they were talking about it on the radio this morning. It’s the anniversary, fifty years ago today. I guess we’d both have been lying in this grave for the last half century if you had not been so composed. 

And there’s another thing; it was a lovely warm day that day—just like today!

so nonchalant!
the white butterfly
over Dad's grave

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About the Author

Sean O’Connor is the founder and editor of The Haibun Journal. His books include Fragmentation (Alba Publishing, 2021), winner of the Haiku Society of America’s Merit Book Award for haibun, and The God of Bones (Alba Publishing, 2022), which won honorable mention in both the HSA Merit Book Awards and the Touchstone Awards. He currently lives in rural Ireland.

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