As we drive down the road to our next destination she stares out the window. The sun shines down on her hair and makes it glow. It’s normally brown, but when she’s in the sun for very long it highlights. The sun uses her as a tapestry to paint its own beauty. She becomes a reflection of something and I know why they believe in angels.
She laughs at something stupid I say as our van winds up and up to the hills. We brake at a pull out and the blistery wind buffs at the vehicle, making it rock back and forth. We pile out. The biting chill of the countryside wind takes my breath away, and maybe what I hear in it does too. The valley is a mosaic of different shades of green fields; they run up each side of the valley and down to the Irish Sea. If you look very hard in the distance across the grey of the ocean, you can see Scotland, they say. And I can’t catch my breath. I can’t help it. I begin to laugh and somebody pinch me because
I am here.
I stand for a while. I take a few pictures and then I take some more without a camera. After a few moments I go back and sit down next to her. She takes my hand and we sit for a little.
**
It’s been pouring down rain for three straight days. We dared go out for a bit, but we were soaked through our clothes within minutes. I lie in the rented bed playing on my computer. A thin, handsome man comes down the hall way. His birth certificate says he’s older than me by a decade, but he looks younger. He stops at the door. His eyes twinkle with a mischievousness that all the Irish eyes do. “I’m gonna go for a walk, care to come?” I say of course I do. Anna readies herself as well and we stroll down the coast. We talk about things, many things in our short walk. He tells us of Salthill’s history and his own. She laughs at something he says. The waves break on the rocks that line the side of the walkway and the salt water lands on my face. It stings my eyes wonderfully. We shout surprise and try to dodge the rest of the waves. He takes us out to a dock of sorts with a diving board or some such thing. His words and laughter are a kind of love letter to the place where he lives. All the people here do it without knowing. Many of the people we meet tell me the Irish are crazy, but I never thought so. No, they are not mad, they are simply Irish.
There’s a bit of a wall one is supposed to kick when they are here. As far as everyone knows, we kicked it and didn’t at all forget to.
As we leave we bid goodbye to our host and his lover. They are wonderful people, but I still can’t pronounce his name. So I call them Martin and Peter. I hug Martin when we go. And I’ll miss it. I’ll miss this emerald Isle with a fire I can’t explain and I don’t think anyone can.
**
She’s holding my hand and we are walking down the banks of the Seine River. Of course the river is dirty and so is the city but I don’t mind because I am here. We come to a bridge with a thousand thousand thousand tiny locks stuck to it. I don’t remember the name of the bridge but we put our own on it and as the sun begins to die as it always must she kisses me on the lips. It is a soft kiss and her skin is warm. She opens her eyes and I hold her dearly. The sunlight dances off of her eyes and into mine. I hear French being spoken by everyone.
I sit for a smoke for a while to watch the dying light and she sits next to me. We are silent. The Eiffel’s beacon turns on and RED WHITE BLUE is aglow against it. They attacked people here ten days ago. Scores of innocents were wounded and changed forever, but they couldn’t take this Liberté, this égalité, this fraternité. We were told we could cancel our trip here, but of course we couldn’t. I stood there on that bridge and the beauty of what was here couldn’t be just seen. It was felt. I could try to write it here but even these words that make a photograph in my mind can’t capture it. I suppose that is the beauty of Paris. We walked home together after a while and the hotel man smiled at us as we came in. Bonsoir he says and I say it back. She kisses me long and deep as the elevator takes us up. The doors open to our room and…well it was Paris, wasn’t it?
**
Bradford is a few miles away. A wonderful short girl with a fire in her heart bigger than she is tall drives us to an abbey. She and Anna laugh together in the front seats. They catch up on things they have missed since the last time they saw each other. I sit in the back and watch the miles of farm land fly by. The abbey is in a place called Bolton. The place is older than the US, by centuries. They walk away together and I find my own way around. Visitors come here each day to enjoy the trees and creek that flows past. It’s quiet and peaceful. A tree stands and its leaves are colored to match the fall. I see sheep on a hill in the distance and snap a few pictures. I meet up with the girls after a bit and I can feel the age in the stones of the ruins. Their crumbling texture is full of ghosts and stories that only a few can know, but you can hear if you stay long enough. The sun is rare in this country but today it shines and it is warm. It casts shadows onto the grass and the trees reach toward it. I can hear the choir in the abbey practicing. A little old woman tells me it is fine to go in because the service won’t start for another half hour. I pass a bishop and he greets me. The light through the stained glass shines colors into the dark interior. Mary and saints look down on all passersby. The breeze grows cold as the last of the rays pass behind the hills and we get back into the little car. I feel the last breath of the day leave as night encompasses us. As it goes it whispers that it will return. I know I reply. Because I will too. There is too much to see, and not enough time in a day or a life. But we’ll give it a run for its money.
We drive down skinny roads and pass giants of old. They are lost to time and abandoned. I wonder what the world will say of us when we are gone. But it probably will say nothing, and we will be abandoned too. All that will be left will be crumbling ghosts, breaking waves, and a few pictures, rotting in the ground.
But maybe, just maybe the sun will hold our memories. Maybe it will paint it on the hair of a beautiful girl. Maybe it will use her as a tapestry and the reflections will make angels believable again. It will pour the memories into the dying light, and if one tries very hard, they will hear them in the wind.
Storied By Josh 