They say you must cherish your memories lest they slip away in the night, trying for a freedom you deny them.
I remember Ireland, knowing it was home although at the time I thought I was Ashkenazi and Portuguese, but my genes were trying to tell me something.
I remember driving a stick shift down narrow roads, always keeping in mind the advice, “if you hear the branches of the yellow gorse against the side of the car you’re fine, if you hear the stone of the fences you’ll have a large bill when you return the car.
With the stroke of a pen, they enabled me to write the story, gave a framework on which I could hang all manner of dreams and assumptions, inviting a search I never quite got around to making.
I wandered the beaches of Estoril in my dreams, stalked the avenues of Lisbon, looking for a familiar face, but found only ghosts.
With the stroke of a swab inside my cheek, a vial of saliva mailed, the story came apart, and a new story slowly unfolded, gone forever was Iberia, replaced by Scotland and Ireland, Wales, Norway and Germany, and my dreams were filled with the music of the bodhran and Highland pipes.
I have yet to wander the medieval battlefields of Europe and it increasingly seems I never will. I have visited my share of castles in Ireland and Scotland, but the acoustics there are not good, and I did not hear the anguished cry of soldiers falling in battle,
I have seen rivers, quiet now, where the blood of the vanquished must have flowed in this war and that, for Europe is a place of wars, the perpetual gameboard for the greedy and those who imagine themselves emperors.
I come from a distant place, where three wars on its soil was deemed sufficient, but who will freely give others the wars they have grown altogether too used to fighting, and we gladly offer up our sons to aid in the combat so long as we only receive their bodies in the dark of night.
And perhaps that is our failing, for we know war well, but we keep ourselves clean, and marvel at the destruction we will never know first hand.
The great minds in Transportation have decided that the answer to all traffic problems is simple, you replace troublesome intersections with traffic circles, but you call them roundabouts. They know that the young and wish they were in their muscle cars will avoid them like the plague, for even they cannot defeat centrifugal force, and inertia is one thing they never lack. And for the old, the plodding, either they won’t enter the circle, or will revolve around its center like a small planet bound tightly to its star marking the center, and then only after they have paused for an indeterminite period, trying to figure out how to get in, where to get out and wishing they had called Uber to begin with. And I, behind them know, I can take this time to get in a day’s meditation counting my breath.
They were meanderers, gypsies of sorts, but never Tinkers, never an lucht siúil. They never travelled far, preferring the comforts of where they called home. They knew they wheren’t liked, weren’t really welcome here. They would be tolerated here perhaps, never fully accepted in good company. But they’d grown too numerous to ignore. They walked slowly across the street, meandered. It wasn’t clear where they were headed, they gave no indication. They liked the privacy of their thoughts. Perhaps to the Pharmacy, but Market Street was the long way there. It might have been to Manions, but their ever so black faces said they’d be less than welcome in the public house. I paid them no real heed until they began following me. I turned, stepping off Market off the curb and into the street, turned, scratched the ewe behind her ears. I tried to tell her that a Scottish blackface had no business in the heart of Connemara, but a quick swipe of her tongue on my hand told me otherwise.