Hopefully you know by now who the lastchapter was. If you don't, you should figure it out in this chapter.
Naomi's POV
Jon's POV
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I don't even own my soul. I lost it in a bet...and I live under a rock...sob
I...don't...seriously live under a rock. And...I kinda...own my soul. I think. Just clearing that up.
"Hey, Naomi," I could practically feel my heart thudding in my throat, "Can I talk to you?"
"Sure," She stopped walking and started to do up her coat. Unfortunately for me, I had no idea what I was going to say. Damn. Where was my mind while I was in that classroom?
"Uh...you sang good today."
"Thanks," She smiled a sort of smile that said she was grateful and after that didn't want to have to deal with me anymore.
"It's not an easy song to sing, is it?" I could have smacked myself. Think of something, dammit, think!
"No, but I've had alot of teachers before this, so I have the range to pull it off."
"Right...but, it's an emotional song and all, right?"
"Yeah, sometimes."
"It probably makes you miss your Grampy, huh?"
Her eyes looked glazed over for a second. Damn, I thought, I ruined it.
"Yeah, it can be hard sometimes. I'm going now." She turned sharply on her heel. She really isn't that blunt sometimes, especially when she's upset with someone.
"It's not like I'm looking down at you, or something, it's not like there's anything wrong with missing someone you lost-"
"Okay, Jon," She rounded on me, and I couldn't remember ever being scared of someone I had to look down in on in order to make eye contact, "Is it okay to keep reminding me of it?"
I followed her outside trying to explain myself. I wished I never tried to approach her at all.
"Naomi, why are you acting like this?"
That stopped her.
"Acting like what?"
"Acting like you're the only person in the world who's ever lost someone."
"Who have you ever lost, Jon?"
"My mother. She died when I was 11. You think I pretend I don't miss her?"
"Yeah, I think you do, because you've never mentioned it before."
"Maybe I didn't want to think about it. Maybe I thought I'd get this reaction. I don't tend to just walk on up to people and say,
'Guess what? My mother's been dead for five years! I miss her!' "
Naomi's expression softened a bit.
"I'm sorry, Jon."
"Don't be. I guess I do pretend that I don't miss her. It's sorta strange," I sat down on the cold stone steps beside her, "But I've never felt like I wanted to sing or have anything to do with music since she died. She asked me to sing to her when she was dying. I sang Brahm's Lullaby and Hushabye Mountain. It all happens awful fast."
"I know," Naomi's eyes stayed focused on the road, but her lips nearly curled into a smile, "My Grampy was the one who made me want to sing. He used to go up to Canada every summer. Most of the time, he'd stay in Eastern Canada.(AN- Boo-yah. Atlantic Canadians OWN)He loved the music, the scenery...he was actually almost fluent in the Gaelic language, he taught me a little bit. He had three favorite songs that he always sang to me. Well, actually, one of them I never used to like much..."
"What was it called?"
"Process Man. It made me cry."
"How did it go?"
August 25, 1957
"C'mere, Mimi," Grampy smiled as I clambered onto his lap, "You want to hear another song I learned?"
I nodded eagerly. I was six years old, and it was Grampy's welcome back party from his return from Canada.
He began singing in his low, haunting voice,
"And it's go, boys, go,
They'll time your every breath,
And every day you're in this place,
You're two days nearer death,
But you go,
Well, a process man I am and I'm telling you no lie,
I work and breathe among the fumes that tread across the sky,
There's thunder all around me and there's poison in the air,"
But Grampy's voice was soon drowned out by my screaming.
"Shh, Mimi, do you want to hear some talk?"
I knew what that meant. He was going to teach me some new words in that funny language! He'd taught me some French, and some Spanish, so now he was filling me in with a few Gaelic phrases. If he was lucky, by the time I was ten I'd be able to say exactly five words in no less than fifteen different languages.
"I'm going to ask you where you're from, and you answer, 'Is as Meiriceá', okay?"
I nodded.
"Okay. Cá as duit?"
"Iz awz marcka."
"Good job. That means, 'I'm from America.' I bet you'll be able to speak alot of languages when you're big."Grampy never commented on my sloppy foreign languages.
"Anything else?"
"I can say, 'Naomi is very álainn," Do you know what that means?"
"Little? Funny?"
"No, it means, 'Naomi is very beautiful," I remember I giggled and a few of the adults laughed.
"Okay, time to eat, " He set me on the ground, "Ta gra agam ort."
"What's that, Grampy?" I took his hand and walked into the blinding afternoon sunlight.
"It means, I love you."
January 15, 1967
I'd never been to a wake before. I stood behind my older cousin the whole time. It smelled weird, and there was soft organ music playing from nowhere I could see. Grampy was lying there, really still. People were commenting on how good he looked. I didn't think he looked good. He looked different. I didn't know what they did to people at funeral homes in those few days you left the bodies alone with them, but whatever it was, it changed how Grampy looked.
It was a few minutes before people started pouring in.A few I knew, a few were really kind, but for the most part, it was just a lot of hald-hearted handshakes and them just murmuring, 'Deepest Sympathy,' or 'Sorry for Your Loss,'
I didn't believe these people. They didn't even look at me when they said it. If you're going to say it, at least act like you mean it.
The next day, we went to the funeral. I had been asked to say something at the funeral, and it was up to me what. It didn't exactly rest my mind.
"Grampy said he stood for four things," my voice seemed to echo everywhere, and even though I was used to it in my singing,I was uncomfortable, "Love, Friendship, Music and Peace." I was silent, as the people in the chapel repeated my words.
"Love, Friendship, Music, and Peace."
Annsachd, cairdeas, ceÒl, soíchán," I smiled at the closed casket, "Ta gra agam ort."
At the gathering, I was approached by my Uncle Dan.
"Naomi," he sounded a little amused, "Grampy wanted you to sing at the gathering."
"Oh...what song?"
"In his state, he couldn't remember the name of the song. He said it was that one about the wake where strange things happened?"
"Oh, Finnegan's Wake?"
"I don't know. The one where the man wakes up?"
"Yeah."
"That's the one."
"Right." Leave to to Grampy to want a humorous song sung when he died. Uncle Dan got everyone's attention, and told them I was going to sing. Needless to say, I didn't have any accompaniment.
"Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin' Street
A gentleman, Irish, mighty odd;
He had a brogue both rich and sweet
And to rise in the world he carried a hod.
Now Tim had a sort of the tipplin' way
With a love of the whiskey he was born
And to help him on with his work each day
He'd a "drop of the cray-thur" every morn.
Whack fol the darn O, dance to your partner
Whirl the floor, your trotters shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!
One mornin' Tim was feelin' full
His head was heavy which made him shake;
He fell from the ladder and broke his skull
And they carried him home his corpse to wake.
They rolled him up in a nice clean sheet
And laid him out upon the bed,
A gallon of whiskey at his feet
And a barrel of porter at his head.
Whack fol the darn O, dance to your partner
Whirl the floor, your trotters shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!
His friends assembled at the wake
And Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch,
First they brought in tay and cake
Then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch.
Biddy O'Brien began to bawl
"Such a nice clean corpse, did you ever see?
"O Tim, mavourneen, why did you die?"
"Arragh, hold your gob!" said Paddy McGhee!
Whack fol the darn O, dance to your partner
Whirl the floor, your trotters shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!
Then Maggie O'Connor took up the job
"O Biddy," says she, "You're wrong, I'm sure"
Biddy she gave her a belt in the gob
And left her sprawlin' on the floor.
And then the war did soon engage
'Twas woman to woman and man to man,
Shillelagh law was all the rage
And a row and a ruction soon began.
Whack fol the darn O, dance to your partner
Whirl the floor, your trotters shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!
Then Mickey Maloney ducked his head
When a noggin of whiskey flew at him,
It missed, and falling on the bed
The liquor scattered over Tim!
The corpse revives! See how he raises!
Timothy rising from the bed,
Says,"Whirl your whiskey around like blazes
Thanum an Dhul! Do you thunk I'm dead?"
Whack fol the darn O, dance to your partner
Whirl the floor, your trotters shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake! "
A lot of the parents thought it was awful funny. It really showed how funny Grampy was. I didn't like it, because in the song, the guy wasn't dead at all. Grampy had yet to rise.
"Funny," Jon was saying, as I snapped back to attention, "How the two stories are the same in a way, when everything about them's different."
"Yeah, and there's my Dad." Dad was home for a few days, "I'll see you later. Go raibh maith agat."
"What?"
"Thank you." I hugged him and skipped off to the car. I had once seen Jon asa potential boyfriend, and lately as a potential little brother. But as of now, I really just saw him as a potential friend. As soon as he stopped being everywhere I was without coincedence involved.
I had a little prompting from my sister to put some good ole Atlantic Canadian folksongs in there. I had to put in Process Man because my uncle used to sing it (he can't sing) and it scared me. Mostly because he can't sing.
Finnegan's Wake was an old classic at Ceilidhswe used to go to at this place closed to somewhere we used to live, and so it's always been a favorite.
-Jamea
