Christmas In The City (Imperfect Match 1.50)

“You too, Sally.”

She turned and called over her shoulder, “And merry Christmas. Can’t forget about that.”

“Merry Christmas!” I called back, watching her until she turned the corner and disappeared. I headed out onto the street, burying my face in my scarf to fend off the cold. My breath was visible in the icy temperature as I sang softly to myself, the soles of my rubber boots almost silent on the pavement.

Across the way was St. Stephen’s Green, the streetlights casting shadows on the greenery of the park. Further down, the Christmas lights that adorned the shops and restaurants at the top of Grafton Street appeared, twinkling in all their festive glory. The area was still a hive of activity, even at this hour. Some were hurrying to buy last minute gifts, while others socialized in bars with friends and loved ones. It was the exact opposite of tomorrow, Christmas Day, when everything would be closed, the streets of Dublin empty and quiet, like the opening scene to some post-apocalyptic zombie movie.

When I reached the bus stop, I groaned. The screen said it was an hour until the next bus. I had no other choice but to wait. Thinking I’d be warmer if I kept walking, I decided to take a stroll to kill the time.

Working the late shift on Christmas Eve wasn’t so bad when you had no one waiting for you at home. Just another late night in Dublin, except the streets were more festive. The weather was cold and the forecast had threatened snow, but the interior of the eateries shone brightly like beacons.

Taking my time, I felt like Charlie Bucket peering in the windows at all the smartly dressed people merrily enjoying food and drinks. They all seemed so happy, so together, and I tried for a moment to fit myself inside the pictures I kept passing, but I couldn’t. My imagination failed me. I couldn’t put myself inside those pictures because I didn’t have any family left, nor many friends to speak of.

I was alone.

This was my first Christmas without Gran. Even though it had always been just the two of us, we still felt like a complete family. I guess that was the risk of only having one person, if you lost them, you were on your own.

At least I still had music. That, too, was a gift from Gran. She’d taught me the words to traditional Irish songs from a young age, and encouraged me to lift my voice and sing acappella for her friends when they came to visit the house.

Lately, I’d started to go inside little hole in the wall pubs, the ones without music, where old men sat quietly sipping on pints. In places like that people listened, but they didn’t stare at you or make a fuss. I wanted their ears, not their eyes.

Singing was my true passion. Sometimes I’d take to Grafton Street late at night, throw a hat on the ground and sing song after song. Often, I made more money from an hour of busking than I did from a full day cleaning at the hotel. The trouble was I was constantly battling stage fright, especially during the day. It was too bright, with too many people paying attention. At night there was the safety of darkness. Most of the people passing by were drunk, and I was far more comfortable with drunk people than sober ones. They were more easily pleased. . .

I passed another restaurant, then another, the sound of laughter chasing my steps. Rubbing the ache in my chest, I stopped at the end of the street, heaving a watery sigh, and feeling like the cold had stiffened more than just my bones.

On instinct I stepped inside a small pub, mostly to get out of the cold and away from the sound of Christmas Eve festivities. It seemed like a typical, garden variety place. Dimly lit and smelling of ale, there was a long wooden bar, haphazard tables and stools tucked into nooks and crannies, ephemera from the last hundred years decorating the walls, and a sparse smattering of patrons nursing their pints.

But as I stood by the end of the bar and looked without really seeing my surroundings, I felt a song stir within me, clogging my throat as I battled with the compulsion to let it out. Maybe it was because I was so tired, or maybe it was simply because I missed my gran on Christmas and wanted—just for a moment—to feel close to her again, but I closed my eyes and let my voice take over.

I sat within the valley green

I sat me with my true love.

My sad heart strove the two between

The old love and the new love…

The loneliness and melancholy left my body as I sang. It sat on the surface of the lyrics, an invisible passenger flowing out into the room for whoever was there to listen. I took the loss expressed in the song and melded it with my own.

While sad I kissed away her tears

My fond arms round her flinging.

The foe man's shot burst on our ears

From out the wildwood ringing.

A bullet pierced my true love's side

In life's young spring so early.

And on my breast in blood she died

While soft winds shook the barley.

I fell silent, the last note ringing through the silence and through me. A few people clapped, bringing me back to the present. Exhaling heavily, I felt the familiar catharsis, the release, and with it also came peace. The feelings built up inside me until I had no other choice but to let them out through song.

And now it was done, I turned to leave. But the barman called, “Hey, young one. What’s your poison?”