The first of May, May day, International workers day

In Limerick, Ireland, it is the Riverfest this weekend. The French market sets up in the streets. I used work on the Sunday, my friend and I would stroll through the market towards the shop. I was always nursing a hangover. Telling her the details of my night, and in turn listening to hers. It was nearly always raining. Jumping over puddles and ducking under shop awnings. The smell of hot food, sausages and crepes would turn my stomach. I was gasping for my cup of tea, nestled amongst the shelves of cardboard boxes in the stockroom. All I remember from the market is the candy floss and the blue dress I bought. I wore it once. It was bright and colourful. A happy dress. I couldn’t wear it. I was not happy.

I wish I had that dress now. I’d wear it with pride. I’d spin in a circle, making the skirt whirl out around me. Sometimes I wake up, thinking about an item of clothing I used to have. I wonder where it is. I always gave my clothes away. It’s strange I know, but I miss my clothes. My clothes hold memories for me. Picking up the red top, with the cigarette burn. Countless memories roll over me.The night it got the burn. When I yelled at the girl to watch her damn fag! Or standing in the queue to the club, freezing, wishing I’d brought a jumper.

I think I miss Ireland. Irish weather outside wind, clouds, and rain. I miss the accents, the sarcasm, the twinkles in the eyes of someone who is pulling your leg. I wish I could sit down to a full Irish breakfast with a pot of tea. And be grateful that I’m not stuck outside in the flogging rain.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s