I told her my new theory on time and toys last night as we laid in her glorious bed. It is enormous, yet we sleep spooned together, her back to my chest, her head beneath my chin. I can’t quit touching her, but she suffers from the same insecurity. It will be a while before either of us can bear any type of separation. I was in the shower—so much hot water coming at such a wonderful velocity—and she joined me after a few minutes, her eyes shy and her cheeks pink.
“I was afraid . . . and I didn’t want to be alone,” she said. She didn’t need to explain or apologize. Her presence there led to another discovery. The shower is delightful for a variety of reasons. But apparently there is a limit to the hot-water supply.
The trip to Sligo made me appreciate Anne a little more, if that is possible. I can’t imagine the fear and intimidation she must have felt that first time, trying to navigate a new world (and new clothes) while pretending to be someone who was well accustomed to it. We ended up purchasing a wardrobe that looks much like my old one. Peaked hats, white button-downs, and trousers haven’t gone out of fashion. Suspenders have. Vests have. But Anne says the style suits me, and I can wear whatever I like. I’ve noticed I dress like the old men. But I am an old man—even older than Maeve, who has taken all of this in remarkable stride. We went and paid her a visit today. We talked for hours of the years I missed and the loved ones who are now gone. When we left, I embraced her and thanked her for being a friend to Anne, both now and then.
Anne’s going to write our story. I’ve asked if I can pick my character’s name, and she agreed. She also wants me to pick our child’s name. If it’s a boy, he will be Michael Eoin. I’ve had more trouble thinking of a name for a lass. I don’t want her to be named for the past. She will be a girl of the future, like her mother. Anne says maybe we should call her Niamh. It made me laugh. Niamh is one of the oldest names in Ireland. Niamh, the Princess of Tír na nÓg, the Land of the Young. But perhaps it is fitting.
Anne is even more beautiful than I remember. I haven’t told her—I don’t think women like comparisons, even with their old selves. Her hair is glorious. She makes no effort to control it here, and it curls with complete and joyous abandon; it curls the way Anne makes love. She laughs at her burgeoning belly and her swollen breasts and the way she waddles and can’t see her toes, but all I want to do is look at her.
We’re going to Dublin in the morning. Anne says eventually we will see all of Ireland together. I recognize old Ireland beneath her new clothes. She hasn’t changed much, Éireann, and when I look out at the lough and up into the hills, she hasn’t changed at all.
Dublin might be hard for me. I went back very little in the ten years after Mick died. He lurked around every corner, and I had no wish to be there without him. I wish he could see Dublin with me now, and I wonder what the world would have looked like had he lived.
We’ll go to his grave at Glasnevin when we’re through, and I’ll describe all the ways the world has changed for the better, even in Ireland. I’ll tell him I found my Annie. I wish I could see his face; he took her loss so hard. I’ll tell him I found my girl, and I’ll ask him to keep an eye on my boy.
Eoin is very present. He’s in the wind. I can’t explain it, but I have no doubt he’s here. Anne showed me the books—The Adventures of Eoin Gallagher—and I felt him beside me, turning the pages. Then she handed me a box teeming with letters Eoin had insisted she keep. Hundreds of them. Anne says she never understood why he hadn’t sent them. They are dated and bundled in decades. There are more from the early years, but at least two for every year of his long life, and all of them are addressed to me. He promised he would write. And he did.
T. S.