Another year, another Padraig's Day. In Ireland, they'll have had the St. Patrick's Day parade, but green beer, no, they wouldn't be doing that sort of thing.
I go to pick up some things in the neighborhood, and I cross paths with a Dublin boy. He's already charmed the girls around here by the looks of it, as I watch the giggling Canadian girls blowing him kisses.
He wants to buy somethingorother, but he doesn't know his way around. I help him out.
"Sounds like you just arrived from the ould sod," I say. He nods. And who could miss that broad Dublin accent. "Dublin, right?" I say. "It is," he says.
How do they find me?
I channel-hop and find myself listening to three young men on a stage harmonizing. The song? Danny Boy. But wait! Am I hearing things? Having sung it in English, they're now singing it in....German.
I root around the bookshelves looking for a book and out floats a scrap of paper, yellowed with age. "I'm so sorry, my darling," the note says, written in my Irish MIL's handwriting. The note she slipped into my coat pocket on the day of her eldest son's funeral. Can you imagine a mother doing that in the midst of her unimaginable grief?
A very Irish day, indeed.