Chapter 17 Bringing Him Home #4
Before, I thought strength meant never slowing down. Just keep moving, keep the cracks hidden, keep the world from seeing you falter. I wore that like armor.
After, I see how much of me burned in that fire—how much of the man I was turned to ash… or scar.
And yet here I am—hands on something solid again.
Sanding along lines that follow the grain.
Letting the wood teach me patience, steadiness.
Becoming my father’s son.
Maybe what’s left is enough to remake a life.
Maybe the good parts of before-the-fire Colin have started to walk this road with me.
And I have Cory and Randy to thank for a lot of that.
They never asked for my story. Never asked what broke me, or why I was walking alone.
They just handed me a sander, made me tea and good Irish stew, gave me work to do—and space to breathe.
That’s love. That’s—family.
I hope they know what it meant.
What they meant.
Maybe I’ll tell them someday.
Or maybe I already did—in the way I stayed. In the way I worked.
Still… before I leave tomorrow, I’ll leave a note in the till.
Just to let them know how much they matter.
Day Nine – Just outside Limerick, at the edge of town
Cory and Randy made it easy to stop for a few days.
Let my feet breathe. Let my soul breathe.
In their shop, the smell of sawdust clung to me like it belonged there.
My hands remembered the rhythm of sanding, shaping.
No one asked when I was leaving. I think they knew before I did—this walk isn’t about the finish line.
They reminded me of a truth I’d forgotten: being unbreakable isn’t the same as being healed.
And now I’m back on the road. No one here to tell me I’m right. Or wrong. Just me. And I’m not sure I like what I see when there’s no one to impress. I talk big about doing the right thing, but who am I when I’m not the hero in someone else’s story?
Every mile feels like I’m peeling something off—layers of performance, maybe. I don’t know what’s under there yet. I’m not sure I want to.
I remember:
Dancing with him in the kitchen. No music—just the hum of the fridge and his hand at my waist. I spun him once, then drew him back in. His breath brushed my cheek and he said, “This is my favorite part of the day.”
I see:
Roadside shrines, weathered by years and prayers—rosaries faded by rain, wax pooled at the bases, slips of paper pressed into cracks. I knelt and whispered one prayer for my beloved, one for Sarah, one for Hannibal… and, for the first time in years, one for me.
I feel:
I ache all over. From the walking, sure—but more from carrying his absence inside me.
Day Ten – Limerick → Rathkeale
Distance: 19 mi
Route Notes: Leaves the city along the Great Southern Trail, a converted railway path lined with old stone bridges and shaded green tunnels. Flat, easy walking with long rural stretches between villages.
Location Reflection – Rathkeale:
The greenway feels like a forgotten corridor—ferns spilling over stone walls, the hush of old tracks buried under moss. Two lads on bikes passed and waved, never slowing. No questions, no expectations.
Journal:
I see:
A hillside covered in gorse, gold against the gray sky. For a moment, the sun broke through, and the whole world glowed. It touched my face and stayed there. Thirty seconds of warmth. I didn’t cry. I didn’t crumble. I just stood and let it fill me.
I remember:
Sunday morning. Sunlight on our faces. His fingers in my hair. His voice low, telling me, “You don’t know it, but this is when you’re most beautiful.”
Joshua, my love—
If you were here, you’d hate the mud but love the quiet. You’d walk beside me, maybe humming, maybe silent. Either way, your presence would be enough.
I ache for the sound of your voice, the scent of your skin, the feel of your arms around me. My soul’s been holding its breath since I left. I don’t think it’ll exhale until I’m with you again.
I feel:
A little less haunted. The silence isn’t sharp today—it’s space, not absence. I think… maybe that’s progress. Maybe I can play the hand I’m dealt.
Day Eleven – Rathkeale → Newcastle West
Distance: 12 mi
Route Notes: Follows the Great Southern Trail through farmland and pockets of woodland. Passes disused rail platforms, ivy swallowing old iron gates.
Location Reflection – Newcastle West:
Stopped at a tiny shop for tea and bread rolls. The woman behind the counter asked where I was headed and nodded like she’d known the answer all along. There’s a castle ruin here, just off the main square. I sat on a bench across from it and let the quiet settle in my bones.
Journal:
The inn I’d planned on was full, so I slept in a copse of trees by a field. Cold. Damp. But the stars… my God. I’d forgotten how many there are—like someone tipped a bucket of diamonds across the sky.
I remember:
One night in Shenandoah, miles from anywhere. We pulled off the road and lay on the hood of the car, watching the stars. He laced our fingers together and whispered, “Even if everything else disappears… this is enough. You. Me. And the stars.”
I see:
A man walking with a border collie at his side. He nodded as we passed. No questions, just: “Sure, what better day for the walking, eh?”
And he was right. It was.
God, I love the Irish.
I feel:
Stronger. My legs don’t ache like before. My pack feels lighter, though nothing’s changed inside it.
And Sarah—
I’ve carried her death like proof of my own failure. Believed suffering was the only way to balance the scales. Even shutting Joshua out felt like a price I had to pay.
But she didn’t die because I failed her. She died because she was a brave, stubborn warrior who ran toward danger when others would have run away.
I hate that she’s gone. I always will. But I won’t dishonor her by making her death about me anymore. I’ll honor her by living in a way she’d respect.
If I’m quiet, I can almost hear her laugh. Not angry. Not blaming. Just Sarah.
And for the first time, that thought doesn’t break me.
Maybe my grief is shedding its bark.
I’m heading toward Killarney. Not rushing it. The walking is part of it—maybe the best part.
But Josh…
Oddly, the ache for him is sharper now. Like a pointed stick lodged in my chest.
Day Twelve – Newcastle West → Abbeyfeale
Distance: 11 mi
Route Notes: Follows the Limerick Greenway west through gentle farmland and shaded stretches. Passes beneath stone railway bridges, hedgerows heavy with wildflowers. Glimpses of the River Feale as the path nears Abbeyfeale, a lively market town on the Limerick–Kerry border.
Location Reflection – Near Devon Road Station Ruins:
The platform’s just a low wall now, half-swallowed by grass.
A single bench sits crooked under the trees, silvered by rain.
I sat a while, listening to the wind thread itself through the old signal posts, wondering how many people had once stood here, waiting for a train to take them somewhere they needed to go.
Journal:
Stopped for Irish stew in a small pub, the kind that feels older than memory. A fiddle played in the corner—notes bright with joy and laced with longing. I smiled without meaning to. If Josh were here, he’d pull me up and make me dance.
And finally… I think maybe I could.
I sent his card today. No words—just a kiss pressed to it before I slipped it into the ancient green postbox. I hope he feels it when it lands in his hands.
I remember:
The night we sat in the glider, watching the moon rise above the Rivanna. Its light caught on the willows, painting them silver. My arm was around him, my cheek against his hair. Just breathing him in. He touched my face and whispered, “You’re my home, you know that?”
And I did know. I always knew.
I see:
The River Feale tumbling over rocks—dancing, leaping, wild—so like the Rivanna that my eyes stung.
I feel:
Can you grieve for a house? For boards and bricks and tiles? For furniture, curtains, pillows, and rugs? For the way the light poured through the window at dawn?
For me, the answer––always and forever––will be yes.
Day Thirteen – Abbeyfeale → Castleisland
Distance: 17 mi
Route Notes:
The road leaves Abbeyfeale and climbs into the hills, crossing into County Kerry.
Bogland stretches out on either side, dotted with sheep and the occasional whitewashed cottage.
Marian shrines stand at the roadside—some bright with fresh flowers, others weathered, their paint fading under years of wind.
Location Reflection – Kerry Border:
There’s no sign to mark the line between Limerick and Kerry, just a shift in the light—like stepping into a memory you didn’t know you had.
The hills gather closer, the air feels older, and the road seems to carry its own quiet authority.
I passed a Marian shrine tucked into a bend in the hill, its blue and white paint chipped but its candles still burning.
The flame leaned into the wind but didn’t go out.
I thought about how many storms it must have seen; how many names had been spoken here.
I didn’t light one. But I whispered a name. The one that matters most.
Journal:
The climb out of Abbeyfeale was slow, my legs stiff from yesterday, but somewhere along the way the rhythm came back.
By the time the bogland opened up, the air carried the smell I only ever find in Kerry—peat smoke, wet earth, something like rain even when the sky’s clear.
The shrines kept me company. Each one is a reminder that these roads have been worn by prayers long before mine.
This close to home, I can feel Danny in the hills, Aunt Aileen in the green that runs right up to the stone walls.
I feel Kathy too—not as the girl we lost. No.
Now she’s part of the wind that moves through these fields.
The land here holds my people. And maybe, if I walk far enough, it’ll hold me again, too.
I see:
A shrine set against the slope of the hill, its candles flickering in the wind, the wax pooling at Mary’s feet.
I remember: