copyright©2025
The Vision
I remember 9/11 as vividly as if it had been yesterday. Marketa and I had just returned from our weekly shopping trip into town. I switched on the television, and there was a CNN correspondent, the smoke from the Twin Towers curling behind him like something torn from a nightmare. My first thought was that it must be some American science fiction series. But within minutes, the broadcast felt too raw, too unpolished to be anything but real. When the towers began to crumble, one after the other, I called out to Marketa in shock, urging her to come at once. We sat together before the screen, spellbound, as if under some dark enchantment.
Each evening after work I rushed home to catch the news, unable to look away. For a week I hardly slept, keeping vigil through the night. In Bagenalstown, grief lay heavy in the air; so many Irish families had relatives in New York. Rumours spread that Al-Qaeda might target us as well, because Ireland had granted the Americans use of the air base in Limerick. The entire country seemed to sway between sorrow and panic. Churches overflowed with mourners, queues forming for candlelight services, for the condolence books laid open like silent witnesses.
I lit a candle and signed one of them. As though that sorrow weren’t enough, I learned that Mr. Long was dying of cancer. I hadn’t seen him in a long while, and when I did—passing on the far side of the street—I barely recognised him. He was gaunt, his skin the colour of ash. I couldn’t bring myself to call out; I knew I would cry if I did. So I said my farewell in silence, watching him vanish into a doorway. It was the last time I saw him alive.
Old Mr. Mike Byrne, though—who played his tin whistle in Lawlor’s every week—clung stubbornly to life despite his doctors’ warnings. He was a sprightly man with small, darting blue eyes that seemed always on the hunt for laughter. In his youth he must have been quite the charmer; even now he hovered around women of every age with a boyish mischief. Sometimes he’d stop by Roosters with an envelope of stamps, carefully clipped from postcards, to trade for the ones I had collected. After his wife died, Marketa and I visited him, bringing a freshly baked cake.
“Well, hello, my beauties—come in for a glass of whiskey,” he beamed as he opened the door.
“No whiskey for us, Mr. Byrne, but we’ll have a cup of tea,” we said in unison.
He showed us his small, tidy home, with its hearth and narrow hallway, then led us to the yard, where he kept a little workshop. There he crafted Celtic ornaments from wood and metal, his hands moving with a craftsman’s patience. He promised to make us each a piece of jewellery, and he did. Inside, the fire glowed warmly, the walls adorned with framed family trees. He spoke for hours—tales of where his people came from, punctuated with mischievous anecdotes from his youth. To me, Mike was the Ireland of old, steeped in traditions that still had weight and meaning. Time with him was like stepping into a land of myths and legends. But men like him were ageing and dying too quickly. I thought to myself, when all the Mikes are gone, there will be nothing left of Ireland.
And yet, even as I tried to live my life, I couldn’t shake the ache of wanting to see Jack—just to catch sight of him. The thought that he might be walking the same streets tormented me. Not seeing him for weeks, as though he had vanished, was worse than the idea of seeing him with another woman. I wouldn’t admit it openly—not even to myself—but the longing verged on obsession. The harder I tried to push him from my thoughts, the more fiercely I missed him. I missed his touch, his presence, the way I felt when he’d smile that sly little smile and call me his “little donkey.” I missed the smallest things, the ones I had once taken for granted. Not a day passed without his name flickering in my mind. I never stopped loving him.
Then I had a strange dream. I had learned long ago that my dreams sometimes carried truth in them; too many had come to pass to ignore. In this one, I stepped out of my flat into the hallway and saw Jack at the far end. His hair was cropped short, and he peered at me playfully from around a corner. I thought nothing of it—only that I missed him.
A week later, while working, I noticed a handsome man enter the bistro out of the corner of my eye. I was so absorbed in my task that I didn’t truly look. But when I finally glanced up, I jolted back half a step in shock.
It was Jack.
And not just Jack—the new Jack. He wore a beautiful suit and tie, and, just as in my dream, his hair was cut short.
“Good Lord, is that you? I didn’t recognise you—sorry!” I stammered, and we both laughed.
He seemed like an apparition. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, marvelling at how impossibly well the look suited him. But he was no longer mine. God, why did he have to look so devilishly handsome? A pang of jealousy and sorrow knotted inside me. He’s not mine, he’s not mine—over and over the words echoed in my head. And yet, how I wished, for just a fleeting moment, that he could be mine again.
copyright©2025
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