buttons

trevor

I’ll call him Trevor. Trevor was from Sligo: take a right beyond the Pale and if you start swimming you’ve gone too far. Probably.

Trevor wanted to raise two twins, one given the best of everything, the other, he’d stay in Sligo. Then he’d gift them each half the planet, and watch the fun ensue.

It was a little red button, paint chipped to reveal a blue something beneath. The little gnome from some 80s kids show looked precisely like a Trevor. Little red face, curly locks of a Fear Bolg, cute menacing grin. He might do you, but he’d be shy about it. Decent sort.

It was hard to fathom from this angle, or any imaginable, which us was more cracked back then. But he had charm, and wit to spare, and really he wasn’t much of a prick at all, if even.

I’ll keep this one in the old cigarette box. Prized ones, fancy ones, cherished ones.

The button rattled off Chicken George as Trevor fell into place.

He’ll have had a good life. Married, couple of kids. Maybe a VW Camper if he’d got daring. Back in Sligo.

Can’t recall now what he did. Far too much of interest about him to hang onto a detail like that.

pauline

This one is Pauline.

Cracked, gold and bronze, distant, shines brighter yet.

Her eyes sparkle as she weaves tales of Tír na nÓg, somewhere close by.

She is the guardian of many secrets. Warm, open, fierce.

Those eyes marked with so much knowing, so much understanding, sparkle because there is so much more that never will be.

Every moment a chance to explore, to create, to share the joys.