I met Aoife on a wet Thursday outside Whelan’s, both of us pretending we weren’t waiting for the rain to calm down. She had a paper bag of chips under her coat and offered me one like we’d known each other for years. That was Aoife. She made strangers feel expected.
We were together for seven years. We lived in a small flat in Stoneybatter where the bedroom window rattled every time the bus passed and the shower only worked if you spoke to it kindly. We used to walk through Phoenix Park on Sundays, making grand plans we couldn’t afford. A house with a blue door. A dog called Brendan. A wedding somewhere near the sea, not too fancy, just enough people to dance badly with us.
But there was always time, or so we thought. We kept putting things off. The wedding could wait until we had more savings. The dog could wait until we had a garden. The holiday to Lisbon could wait until work eased up. Even saying the important things could wait, because we said them in other ways: tea left beside the bed, a scarf thrown around my neck before I left, her hand finding mine under the table in a crowded pub.
The last ordinary morning we had, she was late for work and cross because she couldn’t find her blue earrings. I was half asleep and annoyed about the kettle being empty. She kissed the top of my head on her way out and said, “Don’t be dramatic, I’ll see you tonight.” I said, “Yeah, yeah,” without looking up. That sentence has lived with me longer than most prayers.
She collapsed at lunchtime near Merrion Square. A woman walking behind her called the ambulance. By the time I got to the hospital, there were nurses speaking softly and a doctor with kind eyes who kept saying my name like he was trying to bring me gently into a room I didn’t want to enter. It was a sudden bleed on the brain. No warning. No last speech. No chance to be brave.
For weeks after, Dublin felt like it had turned against me. Every corner was holding her. The bench by the Liffey where she cried laughing because a seagull stole my sandwich. The little shop where she bought birthday cards six months early. The Luas stop where she used to wave at me even if I was only two feet away. People told me grief came in waves, but mine came in places.
I found the earrings in December, tucked inside a mug at the back of the press. I don’t know why she put them there. Aoife was always hiding things from herself. I sat on the kitchen floor with them in my palm and laughed for the first time in months. Then I cried so hard the neighbours knocked to check if I was alright.
A year later, on what would have been our wedding day, I took the morning off and walked to the park. I brought the earrings with me and a takeaway coffee from the place she liked, even though I still think their coffee tastes burnt. I sat under a tree near the Papal Cross and read the vows I had started writing but never finished. They were ridiculous in parts. Too many jokes. Not enough truth. So I said the truth out loud instead.
I told her I was sorry for all the times I acted like forever was a thing we owned. I told her I loved the life we had, even if it was smaller than the one we imagined. I told her I was trying, which was the most honest thing I had.
After that, something in me loosened. Not healed. I don’t like when people say healed, as if love is an injury you’re meant to recover from
Note: Please be aware that these are written in confidentiality and there is not reference or mention of any real people and their sentiments here. Every incident and Story tends to be emotional so please read at your own emotional risk. Website is not responsible for anything related. HumansofDublin.io is not related to the photography project HumansofDublin by Peter Varga
