By Don Kenton Henry
The couple stepped out of the pub into the cold wind of a moonless Dublin night. “And what made you come back to find me twenty years after you left me here on a night much like this one, Darby?” said Maureen. He pulled his collar up and pushed his scarf between the top buttons of his pea coat.
“Well, Maureen . . . this Irish wind was a blowin’ so hard that night, I could not hear yer words. Only the sound of the sea a’ callin’ me back.”
“I did not ask why you left, Darby. I asked why you bothered comin’ back.”’
“It was the memory of your red hair blowin’ in that wind and your eyes as emerald as this island . . . more than anything, Maureen.”
“Well the fire in my red hair has faded and the green of my eyes is duller too. And now your old bones don’t handle these northern gales they way they used to and I suspect your welcome is worn at many a dock where there used to be a lassie waitin’. Now you finally be lookin’ for a place to call home. Is that it? . . . Well, the words that whistled past your ears that night were ‘a baby’s comin’ and he’s got your name on him, Darby O’Dea. So you best take your old bones back to the sweet hand of the sea that cradled you while I cradled him. Your boy’s twenty and doesn’t need you now . . . nor I a man who comes and goes like this Irish wind.”