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She'd threatened this before, thinking
it would cause me great fear after
whatever I did the umpteenth time.
She with nine children that year in Dublin,
and me the boldest and the worst.
I couldn't wait to be among them,
their bright scarves and tools
and horse-drawn caravans,
their campfires at night and sounds
of fiddles and tin whistles, the mattress
with moonlight shining
on the three babies piled upon it.
Travelling was an itch, raw
and sweet in my bones.
How could I live on plain
Mount Auburn Avenue and walk
to Muckross School when
the world of mountains
and berries and lakes
awaited?
How could I carry that sliced loaf
of bread from Johnston Mooney and O'Brien's
when we could shape our own
and smell the yeast rising
from hot stones?
When I looked back,
my beautiful mother
was crying. It would be a year
before I returned, changed.
How I'd miss her.