Lovely Fields

I went home to a place I’ve never been.  Mountains confronted the sea, with only small cottages dividing the two.  Roads were narrow with sheep crossing, slowing the pace of a racing mind.  Passing a sign that said, “Amazing Grace Country”
didn’t do the landscape justice.  The dewey air and the dramatic clouds loomed over you, up and over a mountain gap, winding and forbidden.  The village below a world away, covered in drizzle and filtered light.  Quiet and content.

From afar, white dotted meadows speak another language. The bleeting is absorbed into your subconscious like music you can’t get out of your head.  Tractors bounce through the country roads looking like they have no place to go.  The terrain is rocky and rough, smelling like an earthen musk with hints of heartache.  She lost so many to America.

All of my grandparents wanted to leave the lovely fields.  Poverty was a shadow
that walked next to them every waking hour.  A better life seemed possible, seemed
real.  I walked the damp fields, feeling happy that I was able to marry stories
of childhood with this place.  A true connection was born, not imagined.  My
mind and body finally followed my ancestors, who had been waiting for me to
come home.

Ireland.

Author: Jo Toale