My mother's last wish on a bed at Mass General was to go to Ireland.
"You've roamed the workd and never gone to your native land. I want you to go out there after im done and meet a woman like your sisters, cousins, or aunts."
And like that I was obliged to obey my mother's demand, even though its incestuous nature scared the bejus from my marrow, yet I traveled to the Connemara as ordered. Not a woman in Ballyconeeley. Just cows and sheep roaming the boglands, so I drank Guinness at Keough's with a handful of sad cow farmers and my good friend Ty Spaulding. In the haunted schoolhouse wandering the bogs accompanied by the whispers of Europe washed into the Atlantuc by a westerly wind. Aah true Irekand, that.
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