Bottoms Up (Getting Lucky)

1

Aoife

They said it got easier with time. It was a partial truth. Yes, time healed the pain of losing someone, but then you’d hear, feel, smell, or see something that reminded you of that person, and bam, you were right back in that deep, dark pit of hurt.

I remembered the day of the small, intimate service I held after my mother passed away. The Catholic priest placed a weathered hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye, as if he wanted his next words to really be felt.

“May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and rains fall soft upon your fields.”

And to this day—a year after I first heard it—that blessing written by William C. Witherup still clung to me. Maybe I even took it to heart.

“May the road rise up to meet you.”

And that first line echoed in my mind for twelve months until I said screw it. I was going to do what my mother always told me to do, and that was to follow my heart to where my true life was.

I moved to Ireland just a few weeks ago, a year after my mom passed. And I’d never felt more at home in a place.

My mother and father were Irish, born and raised, but I hadn’t ever known who my father was. I never met him, didn’t even know his name. And a few things my mom told me about him led me to believe he hadn’t been the most upstanding character. After she’d gotten pregnant at the young age of eighteen, she’d been all but snubbed, looked down upon, and condemned by her small, very traditional home.

She moved away, taking all her savings, moved to a foreign country, and started a brand-new life. She had me shortly after landing in America, and although I knew it had been hard for her, she made it work. I’ve never known a more hardworking and dedicated person than my mother. She hadn’t only been my mom. She was my best friend, my confidant. She was supportive in every single endeavor I’d done. She helped me any way she could, taught me traditions she brought from Ireland, told me over and over again I could be anything, anyone I want, as long as I wanted it bad enough.

I let my thoughts consume me as I walked the streets of Duthmoore. The weather was chilled, but not so cold it kept people inside.

I stopped and smiled, inhaling all the scents of the town, loving the clatter around me, feeling like I was home. What made being here even more incredible was the fact that people didn’t butcher my very Irish name when seeing how it was spelled. Back home, they’d see Aoife and try their hardest to pronounce it. The majority of the time, it was never how it was actually pronounced, Ee-Fa. But here, my name was fluid and correct when anyone saw it written down.

I didn’t hold mispronunciation against anyone though. It was just the way things were when you had a unique name.

I’d been steadily but slowly looking for work since I arrived a few weeks back, but I hadn’t been too serious about it. I saved enough before making the move, and coupled with the money my mother saved—the money I hadn’t even known about until after she passed—it had given me a nice little nest egg.

I really wasn’t worried about keeping a roof over my head or food in my stomach for a little while. But I didn’t like just being idle, sitting at home, or walking the streets. I wanted to do something productive, to keep busy so my mind didn’t wander.

It didn’t have to be glamorous work, and it wasn’t like I had a degree that would drive me toward any particular field. Busy work. Something where I can meet people. Somewhere I’m surrounded by others, so I’m not utterly alone.

I stopped at the windowfront of a little apothecary shop, the glasses on display showing an array of colorful powders, herbs, and salts. Just inside the store, I could see shelving behind the counter filled with more colorful medicines, magical things that could make you feel like you were in another world.

I kept walking, the little shops and stalls in Duthmoore showing Irish traditions, folklore, flags of Ireland, and other keepsakes tourists could take back home with them.

But I wasn’t interested in these shops. I wanted the authentic ones, the kind that made you feel like you were really a part of the country, a part of the society they built in a close-knit circle.

I found myself stopped in front of Getting Lucky, the most famous pub in Duthmoore.

I’d heard about every business in town, stories shop owners told me eagerly, probably seeing me as a tourist instead of a transplant to their village.