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418 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 1, 2019
"Yes. I told you. You told me. And you will tell me again. Only the wind knows which truly comes first.”This story starts with Anne Gallagher at her dying grandfather’s side. Her heart is broken. Eoin isn’t just Anne’s grandfather. He’s her confidant, her best friend, and he raised her. After Eoin passes, he wishes for Anne to take him back to the one place they’ve never traveled. Back to his hometown in Ireland. Anne is grieving, but also excited to be here. She feels closer to Eoin than ever. As she goes to spread his ashes as she promised, something strange happens…
“Thomas?” I moaned into his mouth. “Yes?” he murmured, his body thrumming beneath my hands. “I want to stay,” I panted. “Anne,” he demanded, swallowing my sighs and caressing my cares away. “Yes?” “Please don’t go.”
Anne – 1921
She is the same, but not the same at all
"You must read the book, Annie. Promise me you’ll read the book. He loves you so much, and he’s been waiting so long."
I paused over a picture of a grand house with trees clustered around the edges and a glimmer of lake in the distance. “What is this place?” I asked, breathless. “That is Garvagh Glebe.”
”Someday your great-great-grandchildren will come to Ireland. They will walk up the hill where you are laid to rest, and they will sit by the stone that bears your name. They will know that this was your home, and because it is your home, it is theirs as well.
That is what Ireland does.
It calls her children home."
Thomas Smith was the kind of man who would slip into and out of a room without drawing much attention. He wasn’t loud or obtrusive even as he moved and acted with an innate confidence. He was simply Thomas Smith, as ordinary as his name,
and yet . . . not ordinary at all.
The history after the 1916 Easter Rising is just a garbled mess of opinions and blame.
Tragedy make for great stories ...
"He wants me to take the fall when it fails."
I have come to terms with the fact that idealism often rewrites history to suit her narrative. The truth is, the English are not all tyrants, and the Irish are not all saints. Enough blood has been cast, to condemn us all ... but Ireland deserves her independence ...
Death in Ireland meant a life in Ireland, not a life as an immigrant somewhere else.
Béal na mBláth
There are too many lost souls in Ireland because of politics ...
Don't go near the water, love.
Stay away from strand or sea.
You cannot walk on water, love;
the lough will take you far from me
Where apples still grow in November
Where blossoms still bloom from each tree
Where leaves are still green in November
It's then that our land will be free
I wander her hills and her valleys
And still through my sorrows I see
A land that has never known freedom
And only her rivers run free
I drink to the death of her manhood
Those men who rather have died
Than to live in the cold chains of bondage
To bring back their rights were denied
Oh were are you now when we need you
What burns were the flame used to be
Are you gone like the snow of last winter
And will only our rivers run free
How sweet is the life but we're crying
How mellow the wine but its dry
How fragrent the rose but its dying
How gentle the breeze but it sighs
What good is in youth when its aging
What joy is in eyes that can't see
When there's sorrow in sunshine and flowers
And still only our rivers run free
- Mickey MacConnell
We turn memories into stories, and if we don’t, we lose them. If the stories are gone, then the people are gone too.
There are some paths that inevitably lead to heartache, some acts that steal men’s souls, leaving them wandering forever after without them, trying to find what they lost.
“Don’t forget to read the book. He loved you. He loved you so much. He’s been waiting, Annie.”
“It was like that for me sometimes. I would become so immersed in reading that the scenes and characters I created came alive in my head, fleshed out and independently animated, visiting me as I slept.”
“Every day it’s another terrible story, another unforgiveable event. The whole country is under immense strain, yet there is an odd hopefulness mixed with the fear. It’s as if all of Ireland is coming awake and our eyes are fixed on the same horizon.”
“Don’t let the history distract you from the people who lived it.”
“Thomas Smith was the kind of man who could quietly slip into and out of a room without drawing much attention. He was handsome if one stopped to contemplate each feature(…) Yet he had a slight stoop to his shoulders and an air of melancholia that had folks respecting his space and his solitude, even as they sought him out. (…) He wasn’t tall. He wasn’t short. He wasn’t a big man. He wasn’t a small man. He wasn’t loud or obtrusive even as he moved and acted with an innate confidence. He was simply Thomas Smith, as ordinary as his name, and yet . . . not ordinary at all. I could have written stories about him. He would be the character that grew on the reader, making them love him simply because he was good. Decent. Dependable.”
“It is one thing to fight for freedom; it is another to condemn the innocent to die in your war.”
“I’d been wrong about one thing. These were not average men and women. Time had not given them a gloss they had not earned. Even those I wanted to loathe, based on my own research and conclusions, conducted themselves with fervor and honest conviction. These weren’t posing politicians. They were patriots whose blood and sacrifice deserved history’s pardon and Ireland’s compassion.”