The return

There’s a photo of my mother and me standing in front of a house. She was visiting with my father who took the photo. I’m not sure what time of year it is but it seems to be chilly. A brick wall, a brown door, a couple of windows. I’m trying to remember what it looked like from the inside but it’s all a bit blurry. I remember some of the rooms, or more likely I remember the photos I took of those rooms because I can’t remember other details, there are no hallways or courtyards or bathrooms in the house in my head. The number is wrong. 20. I remembered it as 37. 37 Friar Street. Where did the 37 come from?

I turned 21 in Cork. It was the day I arrived. I didn’t know anybody and my phone wasn’t connected yet. I spent the day on my own. What did I do? I must have eaten some cake. How could I have forgotten the cake?

It must have been chocolate cake. Maybe I went to Fellini’s on that day to eat a piece of birthdaycake. I used to go there on Sundays to listen to opera while sipping my coffee. I wonder what they play there these days. I wonder if it is still there.

It is surprising how little photos I took of Cork. It is even more surprising how little I remember of those 7 months. There are some flashes, an archeology lesson at the university, tuna rolls at a pub nearby, daily walks from Friar Street to the college rooms, leaky shoes. Playing cards and listening to Tom Waits in the kitchen. Big chunks of Dutch cheese sent by my mother. Trying to speak Irish in Dingle. The women with their shopping carts waiting for their husbands outside the St. Paul Shopping Centre. The dark hair of the landlady (what was her name again?). The red curls of the other girl in the house (Mary?).

I forgot most of the language. I learned Old Irish, Middle Irish and Modern Irish. I forgot why I learned it.

There are more things I forgot, I’m sure. But they will be there. They moved out of my head back to Cork to await my return. Next week. Tuesday 27 at 10.15. I’ll be there.