[ MP ] The Parting Glass

There is a bar. 
 
 It is not a special bar in any way. It could be on any street. It could be on any corner. The old man calls it a public house and indeed, the place is old enough to be called that name, but it does not revel in its old age as some places do. There have been renovations over the years. Some out of necessity - a fire perhaps forced a temporary closure - others simply because change happens. The old man does n't remember the changes, nor the way it once looked. 
 
 The old man does n't remember much anymore. He is getting on in years and time weighs down on both his body and mind. Even in his dreams he is old and tired. But for some reason, even though the old man could not tell you the address nor the name of the place he comes here. Perhaps his mind does not remember, but some part of him does and that is enough to get him in the door. 
 
 It is November and getting colder now though. The old man knows he will have to stop coming once the winter sets in. His body wo n't bear him through the ice and snow to this place. It may have to be his last visit until spring, if he lasts that long. He does n't know how many more winters he has. Maybe not even one. 
 
 He shuffles in the front door and is greeted by the staff. They are familiar with him, although he can not remember their names. They change all the time anyway - it's not worth the effort. They offer to take his cap and coat, but he shakes his head. The November winds have chilled him deeply, so he will keep them on to warm himself up. 
 
 They lead him to a seat and sit him down and bring him his drink - whiskey, he knows, but he can not remember the brand. It is the brand he has always ordered here. He takes a sip... 
 
... and he remembers. 
 
 He remembers his youth. It is the spring time and he is courting Margret once more. Lord she was beautiful. Her cheeks, bright and rosy, like the fruit of the rowan trees that grew in her father's yard. Her lips, lush and kissable, crimson and always drawn into a smile for him. They are in the bar together. Someone has a fiddle and they are on their feet dancing with one another. They are outside, on their way home. She drops a flower - a forget-me-not - and he stoops to retrieve it. He he returns it to her it comes with a ring. She cries. He cries. She says yes. 
 
 It is summer now. Margret and he are fighting. Fighting about money. Fighting about his work. Fighting about chores. Fighting about this place, dammit. There's a tear in the old man's eye and for a moment he thinks if he were younger and stronger he would burn this place down. All the hours he wasted here. But the fighting made it so hard to be at home. After the doctor told Margret she could n't have kids - well, it was hard on her. And she took it out on him. And he took it out on her. And when it got to be too much he came here. Where he had met Margret. To drink his whiskey. 
 
 And more than once fall into the company of another lass. Even now, as so much becomes clear in his mind's eye, he can not remember her name. He loved Margret, but the young girl was willing and pretty and Margret was cold. But as pretty as she was, as warm as she was she was nothing compared to his Margret. 
 
 It is the fall now. The leaves on the tree are falling. Margret is dying. Cancer, the doctor said. Six months, the doctor says. They cry together. He confesses his infidelity to her. She is furious. Tears run down the old man's cheek. One of the pretty girls that works at the bar asks her coworker why the old man keeps coming here. She remembers a few of his visits and how he always cries as he drinks. The coworker shrugs. He pays his bills - why should they care beyond that? The pretty girl agrees. Eventually Margret forgives him. They spend another week or two together in their house. Then one night she is sick. They take her to the hospital. She wo n't leave again. The doctors hook her up to some machines. They give her drugs to manage the pain. It dulls her mind. She forgets who she is. Who the old man is. She is not Margret anymore. The priest marks her with oil. They pray the rosary into the night. She is gone. 
 
 The memory fades there. His whiskey is drained and so is his mind. He rises and doffs his hat for a minute - a silent gesture for those not present - pays his bill and shuffles back out into the night. 
 
 
 

