‘It’s amazing what kind of rubbish ends up in the paper these days, isn’t it?’
‘Why, what’s that you’re reading?’
‘There’s some homeless fella here after swimming from Howth to Dun Laoighaire to raise money for something. I mean, that’s no news, people do that every weekend.’
‘Well I’m sure it wasn’t easy either Dad, especially this time of year. What did he raise it for?’
‘Ah, it says here it was to buy his dead friend a proper headstone.’
‘Really? That’s very noble now isn’t it? How much did he raise?’
‘€1,500.’
‘Well, I say fair play to him. He must have been a great friend. Does it say what happened to him?’
*
Somewhere north of the city, John Kerins walked among the perpetual oaks ruffling in the cemetery breeze. He paused by populated rectangular plots and granite inscribed epitaphs from time to time to learn a little of his late friend’s new neighbours. Chris walked with him, pointing out people of interest and the centuries that had passed since some residents were laid to rest.
“Oh my God, that’s almost 400 years ago John!” she would say, or “John! John, look at this! This man was a famous poet”, or a diplomat, and so on. John would nod and give her as much background information on the person as he could remember, as he was told in primary school.
This was John’s first visit to see Damien’s new headstone in place. Having gone through everything he had; the loss of his friend, the swimming lessons, relocating from the streets of Dublin into permanent residence, John couldn’t face the unveiling. He couldn’t bring himself to be there, to stand before the headstone for photos and newspaper interviews, to retell the story and explain once more why he did what he did.
Today he would visit Damien in the manner that felt right. He could stay a while and speak to him if he wished, see for himself that his friend now rests as he should – acknowledged.
They carried on towards the grave along the gravel path, its borders lined with plastic wreaths and faux flowers, those of wire frame and polyester bloom. Their longevity allowed the dead’s infrequent visitors to pay their condolences when they wished and feel as though they had completed an obligation. They could drop in and whisper “always in our hearts” to someone those same hearts ached for less and less each day.
On every surface and in every scene the grey of January, whose sagging clouds threatened disruption like those of a child’s tears at breakfast, projected the true finality that defines a cemetery. John felt that he would prefer the visit to be over already.
*
‘It says here that himself and his friend were both homeless, and that the friend drowned one December night two years ago.’
‘Oh God, that’s awful!’
‘And then you see, the dead fella was buried and just given some makeshift headstone, so the homeless fella decided to raise money.’
‘Well, good on him. I can’t imagine how difficult it was to go into the water after the friend drowned.’
*
John and Chris reached a junction in the meandering path and sat on a commemorative bench underneath a shuffling oak. She took his hand and snuggled up underneath his arm, resting her face on his shoulder.
‘Are you okay John? You seem sad.’ she asked.
He let the words become an object in the air. His discomfort with discussing these personal trials had not yet eased, and so, as per custom, he steered the flow of conversation in a direction he could captain.
‘I’m fine Chris, yeah. Just thinking that if I hadn’t taken the swimming lessons, we never would have met.’
Chris didn’t notice the shift, such was its slight; ‘And if I hadn’t pulled you out of the deep end that night you wouldn’t be here!’ she replied with her always genuine laugh.
The wind softened and for a moment, like the hand of a grandparent, the sun shone gently through the clouds onto their cheeks. The colours of day awoke, Dublin becoming the creation of an impressionist in love. John felt at heart the purpose of his visit and the need to see Damien. He knew that had roles been reversed, had Damien not dived in to save him that night, Damien would be visiting.
‘It’s weird you know, how this all came to be,’ John said, ‘we probably have Damo to thank for bringing us together, despite it all.’
Chris saw the sincerity in his words; ‘Yes, it is a cruel destiny. But you know John, I’m sure he’s proud of you and thankful for what you’ve done.’
John nodded and they sat for some time in silence, both reflecting on the events of their union. Chris thought of meeting John for the first time at swimming lessons. She thought of the nights they stayed until closing so John could become comfortable with the water.
When John told her that he slept in doorways and hostel beds, begged for food money and the fee for swimming lessons, she didn’t degrade or ignore him. When John told her of what happened to Damien and what he wished to do, she at once understood. He was to her a lost ship, and she was his lighthouse.
John thought about the night Damien died. The thought of Dublin’s December doorsteps and the Irish Sea wind whistling up the quays stirred the fearful child within him. They had slept huddled by a shop front after a day of heavy drinking; intentional tactics to deter the cold. In the quiet hours of the night, John had awoken in an aimless stupor. He wandered towards the unlit low wall of the footpath where opposite the Liffey undulated like the beat of a nefarious black heart. Into it he plunged.
A lifetime later he sat on the rear step of an ambulance, half-awake in the embrace of a thermal blanket. Before him rolled a stretcher, a carriage of death. It carried a body; tarped, hidden. John had at once felt the pang of departure and absence in his heart. He knew, without looking, that Damien, somehow, was gone.
Before departing for the hospital, John asked a paramedic to see Damien. He obliged, allowing him a moment alone in the ambulance. John pulled back the concealing veil to see Damien’s face. He lay there, empty, his eyes staring up forever at nothing. He had drowned saving John. He had heard, from the doorway and through the howling dark, John’s cry for help. He had ran to the Liffey and, disregarding consequence, dived in to save his friend. A passer-by saw the men struggle and altered the Gardai. From what John was told, not what he remembered, Damien had forced him to cling to a ladder rung while he himself fought the pull and the drag of the water. Within minutes rescue would arrive, only to pull Damien from the water like some object of practice, while John was lifted to safety and a second chance at life.
Chris saw the depth in John’s thought and the absence in his eyes; a too often locked door behind which only John resides. She had tried several keys in the past, those of empathy and love among others, none of which worked. Today, she felt, of all days and for all time, was John’s chance to let someone in.
‘John, what are you thinking about?’ she said. She had asked this question one thousand times before, but John always had an answer, an excuse. Today he shifted his gaze to the resting souls, sunbathing oaks and revitalised shrubbery, their juxtaposition a complete summary of life.
He looked at Chris and her brown eyes, their warmth and understanding, their innocence. He loved her from the moment he met her that first night at swimming lessons; her nervous handshake, her whimsical avoidance of instruction. He could trust somebody for the first time in his life; Chris, his Ethiopian rose.
‘Damien’, he revealed at last.
‘And what is it you are thinking about? The headstone?’ replied Chris.
‘No, the night he died. The night he saved my life. I know you’ve said before that I shouldn’t, but I blame myself you know. It’s hard because I’d have drowned if it wasn’t for him. He died for me. And here I am, with you, off the street, clean, living the life we talked about to keep ourselves going. It’s hard to be happy when his drowning is the reason I’m here.’
‘I understand what you’re saying John, but you see, you must think of it like this. Damien jumped in to save you because he loved you, he didn’t want you to die. He knew the risk he was taking and decided it was worth it. When you see it like that, you’ll see that you need to live your life to the fullest for Damien.’
‘I know, I know. I thought the headstone would be some kind of, I don’t know, closure, some kind of sign of what he meant to me, but I don’t feel it yet. I don’t know Chris, I just don’t know. I guess that might change today.’
Chris shifted her arm across his shoulder and her eyes in the direction of Damien’s grave. The time had come to say goodbye to him. Closure perhaps, Chris felt, was on the horizon.
*
‘No, I suppose it wasn’t easy to swim after that. Actually, it says here that he had to learn to swim, that he didn’t know how before the fundraiser.’
‘No way. That’s amazing, where did he learn?’
‘Well, apparently he saved what he could get on the street and paid for lessons in one of the gyms in town. He did a few of the levels it says; he must be like a fish now!’
‘My God, amazing what people can do when they put their mind to something, isn’t it?’
‘It is, it is. And he managed to get himself a job and a girlfriend. By God, fair play to him.’
*
They stood before Damien’s grave and the new headstone. Its polished granite glistened now under the intruding sun, all full and nosey in the sky. John lay a bouquet at its base, the many colours a welcome contrast to the grey gravel.
Neither John nor Chris spoke, this ticking memory needing only the presence of heart and mind. Fellow visitors walked by in ones and twos. Winter birds went about their day oblivious to the lives of those below. A caretaker hunched his tired back on his shovel and fixed his stare on John – he would have recognised him from the papers.
Standing there, John felt within for the first time that Damien would be proud of how he had turned his life around. He knew at last that setting himself on a healthy path and finding companionship would have been what Damien wanted. He knew that Damien’s sacrifice was not in vain and that Damien too would know this.
His new headstone, a monolith in dedication to a friend, was also a permanent reminder of how far John had come. Damien would now not only have the respectful resting place he deserved, but also a badge of honour, an emblem of heroism. John accepted these thoughts and, in both heart and mind, found closure.
The day had become a postcard version of Dublin. The ominous clouds had dispersed to other skies; the oaks serene on the path towards the cemetery gates.
*
‘Well, that’s a lovely story if you ask me, very inspiring. Seems like he’s overcome his fair share of challenges in life. Not a rubbish news piece after all, eh Dad?’
‘No, no, you’re right, a nice piece in fairness.’
‘And what does the headstone say?’
‘In loving memory of
Damien McCormick
1981-2018
A kind man and loyal friend,
who gave his life to save another.’
-end-
all words are mine. if you enjoyed the piece, let me know.
Gene Murphy Writer 
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