by Gwendolyn M Plano
Two years ago, my husband and I traveled to Ireland, the country of my ancestors. Though brief, the visit was memorable, and one day in particular, unforgettable.
We took a bus tour to the ruins of Glendalough, a 6th century village tucked within the Wicklow mountains. As the tour group meandered between one structure and the next, I decided to walk alone through the ancient graveyard. Rather than Halloween’s witches and goblins, there was just a quiet breeze and extraordinary beauty.
Caught in my own tearful reverie, I did not notice the gentleman standing behind me, until he began to speak.
I’ve been watching you, as you’ve walked among the graves.
Startled, I turned and was met with soft eyes of gray.
You love it here, don’t you? Where are you from?
The United States, wiping away the tears from my face.
I thought so. I live just down the road and visit every day.
Together we stood before the field of tombstones and trees, this nameless gentleman and me, admiring the history at our feet, but otherwise not saying anything - until I took my leave.
We took a bus tour to the ruins of Glendalough, a 6th century village tucked within the Wicklow mountains. As the tour group meandered between one structure and the next, I decided to walk alone through the ancient graveyard. Rather than Halloween’s witches and goblins, there was just a quiet breeze and extraordinary beauty.
Caught in my own tearful reverie, I did not notice the gentleman standing behind me, until he began to speak.
I’ve been watching you, as you’ve walked among the graves.
Startled, I turned and was met with soft eyes of gray.
You love it here, don’t you? Where are you from?
The United States, wiping away the tears from my face.
I thought so. I live just down the road and visit every day.
Together we stood before the field of tombstones and trees, this nameless gentleman and me, admiring the history at our feet, but otherwise not saying anything - until I took my leave.
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