Patsy Moran lived next door to us when I was growing up. In his forties, he lived with his elderly mother.
He was a pleasant man who liked to wear tank tops and gossip with the neighbours. On summer evenings he would bring a chair out to the front garden and sit there knitting, ready to chat with whoever happened by.
My mother was very fond of him, all the women in the area were. ‘Poor Patsy,’ they would say. ‘Stuck taking care of his mother while the rest of his family married and moved away.’
‘Poor Patsy, he never met the right girl.’
I moved to Perth in Australia after finishing school and found a good job in construction. In was almost two decades before I returned to Dublin.
I had long forgotten about Patsy Moran by then but my mother was keen to fill me in on all the news. After his mother passed away he had taken in a lodger. A man quite a few years younger than him, and they both sat out knitting on summer evenings.
When Ireland voted to make same sex marriage legal, they were one of the first couples to wed.
[amazon_link asins=’0143114840′ template=’ProductCarousel’ store=’200wordshort-20′ marketplace=’US’ link_id=’6ac157b8-3c0c-11e8-bf44-a17a2ab61c82′]