Last Ireland post I promise

Subtitled: A cemetery and a train.

I went to a giant cemetery outside Dublin. I came upon an old man in black who stooped over a plot. I watched him, because he was all alone, and I like people-watching. He was ripping up weeds and tossing them away from the plot. Every now and then he straightened, heaved a great sniff, and threw his arms behind his back to clasp his hands. He would look all around and rock back and forth on his heels, glancing everywhere but the headstone. He leaned down again to brush a spec of dirt from a flower petal.

He remained there for a long time, next to the plot, repeating this ritual of cleaning and straightening. The headstone was for a woman named Colleen, but that was all I could make out from the distance. His hunched back and shoulders were steady.

I did what I wanted: I found a cemetery and I wandered it. But in doing so I forgot that it is as much an active locus of mourning as it is a historical site. As I was leaving, I even noticed a funeral happening on the far lawn. A million bodies, the museum said. And counting.

Later I took a train ride to the interior of the country. I’ve never been on a train before. It rocks as it goes, passing old houses out big wide windows. we move into the low country. The Dublin mountains are still visible, their squarish pastures clearly marked. Even this close to the city, they have pastures. Across from me, a girl about seven is furiously and carefully reading a book. Her face is all screwed up as she mouths her way through the words. Her brows are furrowed and her forehead is scrunched; this is clearly an engaging story. She’s only a handful of pages from finishing, maybe twenty.

I glance over a little later to see she has the entire book up against her face, and now I can see the title on the spine. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. My heart rattles around in my chest. No way. No way at all. She glances at her mother, in the seat next to her, and then back down to the book. Slowly, discreetly as she can, she flips to the last page and starts reading. Her mother catches her and makes her go back to the part she was on. My heart flops over and combusts. I mean, you can’t write this stuff. What a moment that was.

Cordialement,

Allison

P.S.: Yesterday was a friend’s birthday, so we went out for dinner and had escargot. It’s good!