As the door swung open, Mary saw the small face that had padded up to greet her. She turned on a dim light atop a stand by the door. Hanging her keys on the rack above, she draped her coat on a nearby chair, dropped her bags, and crouched down.
"Heyo, Mick. Nice to see a friendly face," She said. Mary stroked the cat's back down his marmalade fur. "How's it been there, Mickey? How was Dublin you say? Well I'll tell you this, it was bloody depressing." Mary surprised herself; she never swore. Maybe it was her nerves, she thought. "Oh I know, I shouldn't talk so."
Mick stared up at her with a very happy, very blank gaze. He nudged her bent knee in forceful affection, a gentle blow that nearly toppled Mary. She gave him another pat before standing up.
It was 2:36, or so said her oven clock in the kitchenette. Squeezed into one corner of the biggest room in the apartment, it attempted to be its own entity. Mary had turned the large room into a sort of living room/dining area. Her apartment was small but fit her well; Mary would have felt lost in another, larger place. She liked her small, cozy, old home back in Dublin; the closeness here, though another country, reminded her of that. The walls were a dull off-white colour, but Mary had warmed the house well with little personal touches on the walls.
2:36, what a time to be up, she thought. Well it wasn't her fault, the plane got in at 1:40AM and it took her 45 minutes to get back to Ladora from the airport. But where had those eleven minutes gone?
She slipped her black clogs off at the doormat and walked down her small hall into the bathroom across from her second bedroom turned study. Looking into the mirror, Mary saw a woman older than she'd expected. The same brown hair, up in a loose bun. The same grey eyes, freckles. The beginnings of middle-aged wrinkles in the same places. Yet, something was different. Something in her expression reminded her of her mother. Poor Mum, she thought.
Her mother-like reflection made Mary wish she'd stayed longer. Yet, she knew she'd had to leave all that black and sorrow. It was a little too real back in the country, and she could still see his coffin in her mind's eye. She could see her mother's form clutching his old sterling cross as the priest said his final words. Mary could see her mother's face crying.
Mick nudged her out of this depressing reverie. Mary wiped away her tears and walked out of her bathroom. She touched the cold metal of the cross at her neck. Her mother had given it to Mary as the eldest, despite the fact that no one really wanted it to leave Ireland. For that matter, no one wanted Mary to leave, either. Yet her mother knew that Mary needed it more than she. He would have wanted it to go to her anyway.
Back in her living room, the walls looked too white, the central heating was too warm. Mary wanted to be alone and cold with her thoughts. That's why she'd left. The thought of collective grieving had never appealed to her.
After making some tea, Mary slumped in her big, white sofa-chair and put her socked feet up on its oversized footrest. Mick, a little perturbed at having his favourite resting place stolen, jumped up onto the chair arm, happy nonetheless. He began vigourously running his forepaws over the upholstery one paw after another. His ears were slightly cocked back in severe concentration.
Mary looked over at her feline. "What do you think you're sharpening now exactly, Mick? Or have you forgotten those were out a while ago?" she half whispered, half muttered.
The walls of this main living room were littered with black and white photographs. Some famous prints of Ansel Adams', others ones Mary had taken herself, back home and on other travels. Ireland was a different kind of beautiful she thought. Her eyes moved over the pictures around the room fluidly until they abruptly stopped at one on the table next to her. She could only see the brown back of the frame from where she sat, but knew who dwelt inside. Mary slowly stretched an arm over the table, nearly knocking over her tea, and picked up the frame.
The draft from the window directly behind her head sent a chill down Mary's neck as she looked at the picture of her father. His warm smile and relaxed gaze caught a breath in her throat. She saw the glint of silver protruding from his Aran gansey.
"Forgive me Da', I couldn't stay," Mary choked out, another tear rolling down her cheek. "They wanted me to stay, talk about ye, I couldn't do it." Then after a pause, "I just...miss you so."
A flash ran across the photograph as the headlights of a car shone into Mary's dim apartment. The glint of blue light streamed across the walls.
"That your way of saying it's ok, Da'?" Mary asked aloud. "All right, then."
Mary stared at the picture a moment longer before setting it back in place on the table with its companion frame and her cup of Sweet Dreams Bigelow tea. It made a soft noise when she set it on the wood.
She turned back to Mick, who was staring at her wide-eyed in the way only he could get away with. By this time, he had already made his way onto her lap and lay down. He always seemed to do this without Mary noticing.
Standing up, he met her hand with his forehead and purred loudly, breaking the silence in the room. Mary scratched his back and squeezed her fingers down his orange tail. He turned around in glee.
"Not your best angle, lad," Mary joked. "Oh, such a very long nose, but what a puss! No pun intended, Mick." She laughed, grabbing his tail as he waved it in her face nonchalantly.
"Rrauw," he announced.
"Indeed," Mary said with a laugh. "Ok, Mick, time for bed eh?"
