The Gardener and a Goodbye, but not really.

There’s someone in the rose bushes.

I’m looking out my bedroom door, into the backyard where I’ve spent many a day nibbling bread in my hammock. And I’m pretty sure the person in the rose bushes is the gardener the landlord hired.

Pretty sure.

Anyways, I’ve been thinking. I do a lot of thinking when I’m about to transition into a new life period. Like reading a book. There’s a lot of thinking on that blank page before the next chapter, a lot of thought in that blank space… and I can identify with that.

I’ve tried to think of a clever way to say goodbye to Dublin, but the more I tried to make a nice little package with a bow, the more I realized, that would just not be fitting.

I think I should write about all the magic and nonsense of this little country. And that’s where I get lost. Cause I don’t know how to do that yet.

Okay. It’s definitely the gardener. What else would he be doing with that hatchet…

I know they have a woman president, but that she really doesn’t do much besides go to rugby matches and smile for cameras. The Taoiseach has all the power, and this upsets me.

I know there’s this guy that likes to practice tai chi by the canal, and that pedestrians stop to look at the barges going upstream, but really, their lookin’ at the funky dude in tights.

I know they don’t know how to do coffee right, but somehow after 5 months, it tastes pretty good. But that’s because I always chase it down with the right kind of bread. Croissant for a mocha. Baguette with an Americano.

I talk like I know what I’m doing but I have no idea.

I know the men have wild hair and they all smell like sex. I know the café where the waiters draw smiley faces in our drinks. And I know I’ll be back when I know how to say goodbye properly.