"I see it." A person quickly passed the binoculars. Another person held them in front of the elder's face pointed in the direction of the sloping street where a set of headlights appeared like the sun coming up above the horizon. The stone building facing a stone building wasn't stone inside. It was square walled. The mix of emotions among the bunch of people gathered to never say goodbye was weighty but like a giant feather too.
A decade in Belfast. Sisters passing articles of clothing explaining the why of this one's special. A stew pot cauldron not flinching to the crackling of wood in a fire. You will hear of wars.
"Bobs for the rest of them," was determined by the eldest. The slow and mostly quiet jostling and giggles re-enacting a jig at a pub dissipated only as fast as a fruitcake losing its alcohol. A girl would go into a bathroom and lose her locks, get the hairs broomed off of her, then file into duty.
Big shears catching candlelight. Bags of clothing, you've wrinkled them, the chastisement to a man's cork of a face trying to squash the sobbing. The sobbing hellbent on making way from breast.
Wider. The order. The pants replaced on an arm held perfectly still, solid, out like a coat rack. "The next pair should be perfect." Lasses and lads grabbing the shoulder next and whispering into ears. That way word reached the bedroom before official charge. "Who would you like to hear it from?" Two older girls stepped forward, expressions masked, like hearing your measurements carried the dread of a death sentence. "No more Fig Newtons for yah, Missy."
"Been shitting like a pigeon."
The male doctor blushed, cheeks a tapestry of rose and parchment color.
"Up witd yer bum," to the being health checked, "Is dis tah wone?" A flaming lock of auburn hair slipped out from the peggy's cap and hung beside the cottony face mask. "A snug feeling tho' skinny gut," eyes on clipboard, "It's hard to write fast in this cold."
The real sun coming up.
Cough syrup for the per-tuss-in.
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