First Draft

Everything is a draft. My first tears. My wet feet. Me walking on the street, unknown. That street we were living on in Dublin 23 years ago — it was called Herbert Road. Each day we walked past Aviva Stadium first, on our way to the DART at Lansdowne Road, taking the train into the city.

This time it was Merrion Road, Booterstown Station, near the Booterstown Nature Reserve. The Old Punch Bowl pub just nearby. Serving fish and chips. Serving hope.

What kind of hope? What is hope when someone is dying? What do we hope for? That they will go to heaven and face Jesus? That is what we hope for.

What do we hope for, for ourselves? That it won’t hurt to say goodbye? Of course it will. But I hope I will laugh as well. And smile. And say thank you.

I mean, I can’t think about anything else. I will drink coffee and read books and look through the window. I will not care too much about our grass lawn. And every time you tell me that you enjoyed the nice breeze from the window on your skin in the evening — I will feel jealousy. I will close the window.