Predictability strikes. We blow out our tire near where your mother once lived. My insistence got us here. The driver fixes the car. I wander the twisted sidewalks and look for ghosts but find none. Trace the creek but get nauseous thinking about leeches.

“This place is a mess, huh?” my driver says.


“We’re on level terrain.”

“Not level enough for the Irish.”



He takes the opportunity to change his clothes, which really just means replacing the old white t-shirt with another one and throwing it into a duffel bag. We must look a little strange. When you see him, you will ask where I found him and I won’t tell you. I have not changed since the wedding. I can’t recall if you’ve ever seen me wearing lavender before.

“Place is a dump.” My driver says, trying to usher me back into the car.

“I knew someone whose family is from here.” I tell him.


“A friend.” I say. He rolls his eyes.

“Right. Well. It’s a dump.”

The ride over the grass is bumpy until we find the main road. It’s after midnight now. I’m officially into my twenties.


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