the irishman
i met an irish man at a bar down the street from my house. he was with his son and his son’s girlfriend. i had my dog with me and she had just finished vet school in ireland and came to the united states as a reward. she was incredibly kind and she loved my dog. her boyfriend told me his plan about asking her to marry him, and i am sad i won’t get to see it. they loved each other. it was very clear. those kinds of things are hard to find now a days. people in love.
anyway, mid conversation i hear a very loud and boisterous voice. thick accent and a specific tone that let you know he had been through some things. the irishman. we played pool and we drank until last call, then i had them over to my apartment.
the girlfriend noticed a belt of mine hanging on a hook, one i hadn’t worn in months, and she loved it… ran her fingers along the worn leather like it was something precious. so i gave it to her.
the irishman and i sat outside for hours, the night air cold enough to see our breath, talking about ireland and its history. we watched a movie called kneecap and drank all night long until the sun came up, that first light creeping over the rooftops usually gives me the creeps but i enjoyed his company so much i didn’t want to sleep. his son and girlfriend left around 4am, but he and i couldn’t seem to part.
he was older than me. not particularly handsome, but not unattractive… just solid, with laugh lines deep around his eyes. pretty eyes and a silly demeanor. a drunkard to the core and i loved his authenticity. he was funny and warm. rude yet polite, the kind of man who’d interrupt you and apologize in the same breath.
he kissed me and i allowed it, but when i said no more, he just laughed and said, “i’m surprised you let me kiss you at all, lassi.” i thought that was cute… the way he leaned back, palms up, no wounded pride.
he ended up staying another day. i read him my poetry while he sat on my chair, or my bed, or my floor, shoes off, listening with his eyes closed. i told him about my life. he told me about his, about how nobody speaks gaelic in ireland anymore, and when he said it his whole face changed… jaw tight, staring at nothing. his accent was so thick there were times i couldn’t understand anything he said, just the rhythm of it, the rise and fall. i couldn’t tell if he was drunk or speaking gaelic or both at once.
i still think about him. we talk every once in a while on whatsapp. he sends me pictures of ireland… rolling green hills, grey stone walls, rainy days and grey skies that seem so beautiful in a dark and mysterious way… and we play chess on chess.com. he’s very good. he sent me these photos today and i smiled, sitting alone with my phone, remembering my time with the irishman.
dedicated to declan