I find what I’m looking for: a VCR player.
My hands are shaking for some reason, though I don’t have the faintest idea why. It takes me a moment to get the tape into the slot, but once I do, the TV flickers to life immediately.
I’m dropped into a sunny Irish day, in the middle of an exquisite garden.
Two little boys run around in the distance.
The images are grainy, and they’ve got that yellowish tint that I associate with old home movies. There’s something faded and comforting about what I’m watching.
I sink into one of the plush beige lounge chairs facing the TV and keep my eyes fixed on the screen.
As if my thoughts had called them forward, the two little boys run up straight towards the camera.
The older of the two isn’t quite familiar, but there’s no mistaking that distinctly O’Sullivan set to the jaw.
This must be Sean, Cillian’s older brother.
And then, next to him, there’s Cillian.
I recognize him immediately. It’s amazing how much he looks the same now as he did then. The blond-gold curls are the same. The light blue eyes are the same. The smile is exactly the same.
“Ma!” little Cillian cries, launching himself at the camera and unmasking the videographer with a jostle of the frame.
I expect a laugh or chuckle, but Cillian’s mother gives nothing. “Careful now,” she lectures softly.
“Because of the baby?” little Cillian inquires thoughtfully.
“Yes.”
“Where’s Da?” Sean asks. “He promised he’d come play with us.”
Little Cillian shoots his brother a “you should know better” expression.
“Da never plays with us,” he says. “He’s too busy breaking legs.”
“Cillian!” his mother barks.
“It’s true,” little Cillian replies, completely unrepentant.
His face. I can’t stop looking at it. There’s a real innocence on it, despite what he’d just said about his father.
And that gleam in his eyes—it’s the unbridled promise of youth.
It’s that time when you believe you can do anything. Be anyone.
He smiles into the camera. My heart flutters a little as an old dream is pulled to the surface.
My hand settles awkwardly against my hollow stomach. I’d prayed so often and so fervently. To keep my womb empty and my life free of unnecessary complications.
It seems almost perverse, almost ungrateful now, to feel that strange flicker of desire. The need to feel my womb flutter with life.
And why?
All because I’m faced with the ghost of dream: a child I’d once wanted with a man I once loved?
Loved.
I hitch on the word, not sure where it fits amidst all this shit.