Chapter 17 Bringing Him Home #3
An old woman on her porch, humming. Didn’t know the tune, but it stuck to me. Been carrying it all day.
I feel:
So goddamn lonely for Josh it’s like a bruise under my skin.
But also—an uneasy kind of peace. For once, nobody to steady but myself.
Day Four – Corofin → Ennis
Distance: 9 miles
Route Notes: A quiet walk through pastures and stone-walled fields.
The River Fergus welcomes you into Ennis, its friary spire just ahead.
The path wound through fields stitched with stone walls and more sheep than seemed possible—each marked with a splash of red, blue, or purple paint, like moving brushstrokes across the green.
Location Reflection – Ruan:
I stopped at the little churchyard in Ruan, where moss blurred the names on half-forgotten headstones. The air smelled of rain and turned earth. I wondered if the people buried here had ever walked these roads, carrying grief they couldn’t lay down. It felt like they might understand why I’m here.
Journal:
The road into Ennis felt softer somehow—hedgerows leaning close, cattle lifting their heads as I passed.
In the distance, the spire of the friary reached above the rooftops like a hand raised in blessing.
I slowed without meaning to, letting the sound of voices and clink of dishes drift out from shopfront cafés.
After days of near-silence, the noise wrapped around me like a worn coat I hadn’t realized I missed.
I’m not ready to step back into other people’s lives—not yet.
But for the first time since I left, I can imagine wanting to.
I see:
Lichen-silvered stones leaning in the churchyard at Ruan, rain beading on their rough faces. Between the rows, grass lies pressed flat where wind has combed it. The friary spire ahead flickers in and out behind the gravestones. It’s keeping its distance until I’ve earned the view.
I feel:
A looseness in my chest I don’t trust, like a door has been unlatched but not opened. The hum of Ennis drifts toward me—clinking china, a snatch of laughter—and the sound moves through me like heat seeping into cold hands. I keep walking. Not ready to go in. Not yet.
I remember:
The crunch of gravel under our boots the day Josh walked with me to Kathy’s grave.
He leaned into me as we went, the warm pressure of his body steadying my trembling.
Our breath clouded in the cold air—mine hitching as I fought not to break.
At her grave, the raw, familiar weight drove me to my knees, but his nearness made it a burden I could bear.
I’ll never forget his hands resting on my shoulders, or his voice—low and breaking—above me: “I’m here, my yedid. ”
Day Five – Ennis → Sixmilebridge
Distance: 14 mi
Route Notes:
Quiet inland roads through Clare farmland, passing stone walls, hedgerows, and small villages before crossing the Owenogarney River into Sixmilebridge.
Location Reflection – Sixmilebridge:
The road out of Ennis winds through green, low hills and wet pasture.
Cows watched from the shelter of a hedgerow, tails swatting at midges.
When I crossed the Owenogarney into Sixmilebridge, something about the water, the slow bend, made me ache for the Rivanna.
For home. For Joshua, waiting on our porch, the quiet between us gentle instead of heavy.
The air here felt softer, the edges worn down.
I should have felt relief, but I missed the sting—the salt, the Atlantic grit.
Maybe I’m afraid that without the harshness, I’ll stop stripping away what I need to lose.
Journal:
The sound of my boots on the tarmac was steady, almost hypnotic. In the quiet, every thought got sharper, louder. The fields stretched out wide, but somehow, I felt closed in by what I carried. The wind slipped through the grass, whispering something I couldn’t quite catch.
Stopped in Clarecastle for tea. Burned my tongue—didn’t wait for it to cool.
Sitting still felt too much like surrender.
In Newmarket-on-Fergus, I watched an old man sweep his stoop, moving slow and steady, like the world wasn’t rushing anywhere.
The church bell echoed down the lane, and for a moment, the sound felt like a memory I couldn’t reach.
Crossed into Sixmilebridge over the river. My legs were lead, head scraped hollow. Some part of me keeps asking—what the hell am I chasing? If I find it, will I even know?
I remember:
Walking home with Josh after that first summer storm. Drenched, shoes squelching, hair plastered to our heads—still laughing like fools. That was the moment I knew I’d follow him through any storm, just to hear that laugh again.
I see:
A farmer mending a stone wall, his hands sure and patient.
Something in the rhythm caught me off guard.
For a moment, I saw Danny in the set of his shoulders—the quiet certainty that the work would hold.
It put a lump in my throat. I’ve been so wrapped in my own hurt, I almost missed the treasures life sets down right in front of me.
I feel:
Tired—bone tired. The kind that seeps past muscle and settles in the marrow. The wind leaves my skin raw, and inside I feel the same—scraped open, nothing between me and the world but my fragile ego.
Day Six – Sixmilebridge → Limerick
Distance: 12 mi
Route Notes: Follows quiet country roads and winding lanes through Clare farmland toward the River Shannon. The road passes through small villages and woodland paths before entering Limerick City from the north. Industrial buildings give way to Georgian facades as the city’s edge comes into view.
Location Reflection – Shannon Riverbank, near Limerick:
The river was slow and wide here, reeds rattling in the wind. Gulls floated overhead, hunting scraps along the muddy bank.
Journal:
The wind came in hard, tasting of salt and something sharper, and I let it cut through me, hoping it might strip away the blind spots I’ve carried for years—the iron grip I keep on the belief that every loss, every wound, begins and ends with me.
I remember:
Josh on a pier in Scituate, leaning over the railing to watch the boats. I stood back and watched him instead. There was a longing in his face I didn’t understand then something soft, almost painful. Now I know. It was the pull of the water he fears, the ache to be on it despite himself.
I see:
A boy and his father fishing along the bank near Glin, neither speaking.
The air between them was weighted with everything they didn’t have to say.
It pulled me back to Scituate, fishing with my dad—the easy silence, the comfort of it.
But with Josh, the silence is different.
He told me not to call, not to text. We both know I need to walk this path alone.
But Jesus, the loneliness is its own kind of wound.
I feel:
As though I’m walking through two Irelands—the one under my boots, all stone and rain and wind, and the one running in my blood, carried in my family’s voices, their stories, their losses.
And through all of it, Josh is there—not in the flesh, but threaded into every thought and breath, like he’s always been here and always will be.
But something shifted today—the wind and water took more than I expected.
I don’t know if it’s freedom or just the breath before I pick up the weight again.
Colin turned the corner and spotted the sign—O’Riley Home Improvement—with faded blue letters above a narrow shopfront, tools in the window like proud relics. Inside, it smelled of cedar and machine oil. Familiar. Honest.
Cory looked up from behind the counter, did a double take, then broke into a grin. “Well, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—look what the cat dragged in!”
Before Colin could say a word, Randy came out from the back, wiping his hands on a rag. “Who’s this scruffed-up hound? Is it really you, Collie, or just your ghost?”
“Saw Danny. Now I’m walking to Killarney,” Colin said.
“You feckin’ what now, Col? Jaysus, and here I thought we were the mad ones.” Cory laughed. He wrapped Colin in a tight embrace and then urged him toward the back of the shop. “C’mon, a mhac. Let’s knock some of the road off ya.”
Colin smiled—and for the first time in days, it felt real.
They didn’t ask why. Didn’t pry. Didn’t push. Just locked up early, made stew in the little kitchen upstairs, and poured him a pint. One night became two. Then three. No pressure. Just rest.
On the second morning, Cory gestured around the cluttered workspace behind the counter, tools hanging neatly above well-worn benches. “We’ve orders up the walls and not enough hands between us,” he said, catching Colin's eye. “Wouldn’t mind a fella who knows his way round timber, so we wouldn’t.”
Colin felt a flicker of warmth. “It'd feel good.”
Randy smiled and tilted his head towards a half-finished piece. “That custom cabinet’s waiting on finishing touches. Fancy putting your mark on it?”
Colin ran his hand over the grain, fingertips tracing the knots like a roadmap. Wood didn’t lie. It was what it was—scarred, strong, forgiving. A lot like him. Or the version of him he was trying to remember.
He nodded, rolling up his sleeves as the scent of fresh-cut timber filled him with quiet purpose. “I’d like that.”
He didn’t talk much, and neither did they. The work was enough.
On the last night, Colin sat at the table, feet aching, sawdust still clinging to his cuffs. The postcard rested beneath his hand—Limerick at dusk, lights just starting to glow.
He didn’t write anything. Just flipped it over, addressed it, and dropped it in the box outside the shop.
A silent message: I’m still walking. Still breathing. Still loving you.
Colin’s JOURNAL
Days Six, Seven, and Eight - In Limerick
Sitting in Cory’s kitchen. Leaving tomorrow morning.
I’ve started measuring who I am as—before the fire and after the fire.
Like I’m two different people—which, I suppose, I am.