The puca arrived for the first time as the children got ready for bed
Dressed to the nines in his shirt and tie with a chimney pot hat on his head
Wafting his way through the hallway, he stopped at the back bedroom door
Silent and present, pensive and po, not someone you’d choose to ignore
Many years later he called once again to casually drift up the stairs
As a room full of cynics doubted their eyes and questioned their worldly affairs
The foolhardy followed as fast as they would but the visitor couldn’t be seen
So we pottered and pondered and rubbed our heads, not doubting the fact that he’d been
The family albums were quickly exhumed and pictures spread over the floor
In-laws and outlaws were duly assessed, neighbors and cousins and more
When we opened the page at the puca, it was like he was there in the room
To live in your eye as time idles by and lost to his own you’d assume
Based on a true story no less. I saw him myself at ten years of age, standing at the bedroom door. My sisters saw him too, easing down the hallway towards my room.
It takes a lot to silence a clatter of noisy children but that did it. And when i’d given it enough time before looking out from under the blankets he was gone.
When we got enough courage to rush downstairs to question our mother, her assurances that there was nobody else in the house served only to make matters worse than they were.
And so after a good bit of encouragement we had to go back up the stairs, me back into the room on my own, past where he was standing not that long before.
That was a poor nights sleep.