EPILOGUE

 

 

black irish

 

 

 

October.

 

Robert Marcus Cavanaugh clings to his mother. His eyes are still closed and so he cannot see the big crowd of people in the room.

The little hospital room is filled with his mother’s family and police. The men are high-fiving and passing around cigars and the women pretend to be disappointed that he is a boy.

He is a medium brown color and has whips of dark hair. He is a big baby, some eight pounds and change, that makes the men use words like power forward and fullback.

The baby does not know he is named for his two grandfathers, who laugh loudly and tell stories of their sons’ births.

He is passed first to his paternal grandfather who sings terribly an old Irish song that no one else seems to know but for which they applaud happily.

Then he goes to his mother’s parents, her family and the cops in the crowded room while someone noisily takes pictures.

Finally, the baby comes to his father’s arms. He has watched the scene and fights strong emotion, not knowing if he’s happier for his own father or himself.

And then young Robert Marcus Cavanaugh finally opens his wrinkled lids, revealing to his father a perfect pair of hazel eyes.