23 July 2020

My time in Belfast is officially over. Good-byes make me sad and a bit uncomfortable. It always feels easier [to me] once it’s all done. When I was making plans to return home, there had been no official word from Stormont when centers would be allowed to open; as it was, rules and opening plans changed daily. I made the plan to leave Belfast on the 18^th, but children returned to the center on the 20^th. 

I am sad, and very disappointed to not see the children and mums before I leave. But when I’m honest with myself, I recognize how overwhelmed I am, organizing my move back to the states. I don’t know if I would have been truly present for the children and workers; especially if I had to traverse this week of firsts with them. 

I’m in the Dublin area with my daughter, enjoying the life she is creating for herself here. I’m navigating the Euro now, and the higher cost of living. I find myself asking “Do you say [it] like this here in the Republic? Up in Belfast we….”. Things feel very different. Although I still can’t “do” an NI accent, listening to the chatter in the shops here has been another readjustment, and I’m often left wondering if I’m actually hearing a completely different language, and not English, at all. 

I think about my neighbors daily. I can’t really express just yet how special and important it was to have a social bubble on top of that mountain. My last Thursday night in Belfast was spent at Pauline’s with her Aunt Kate and neighbor Martina. Sarah joined us later and we laughed ourselves stupid. Conversation and wine were flowing, Raymond walked the baby up and down in the pram, and Christopher joined in later, along with wee cousin Patrick. Sarah and Christopher shared their story of how they met, we all talked about trips we’ve taken, and we all talked about childhoods and relatives that have passed. 

On that Thursday night there was a storyteller and a confirmer; “we had good childhoods didn’t we, then?” followed by “Aye”. The roles would reverse occasionally, but there was always a coming together and an agreement on facts; narrator and chorus. 

Each neighbor has lost someone close to them; a brother, a sister, father, cousin, son, mother. There is a universal understanding and compassion that runs through that lot, and a social holding of each person and their memories. There are no stories of people still being present, no denial of the finality of death. But there is an embracing of what was, a recognition of deep sadness; the telling and retelling of memories and stories which are sustaining, refueling, and good enough.