The Haunting
Not long ago, on holiday in the West of Ireland, I started waking in the small hours of the morning, afraid there was a ghost in the room. Given that I don’t even believe in ghosts, in the cold light of day, I laughed it off. But when it happened again, I found myself unsettled, and on edge: dreading the night. And on the third morning, on an early walk, I heard a question from my own heart: “ What is it that you are really haunted by?” And the answer came. Today, my father is gone from this world for two years. In the last few months, I have been noticing changes in the swell and ebb of grief. The waters have become calmer. And yet, at the same time, there’s an undeniable truth I have often felt swept up, possessed even, by a struggle beyond myself. And at the moment I called that a haunting, something else began to whisper, calling for me to reclaim it as my own. Oh, Danny boy, the pipes the pipes are calling. ...
