I grew up in Boston. We'd long ago mastered a good drunken tacky St. Paddy's. But for a while, I lived in Galway, and I spent countless days in Cork and Dublin. I jugged along Coast Road buffeted by the winds off Galway Bay. I prowled Dominick Street and Grafton Street and have memories of Ireland that come crashing back at unexpected moments, because if I'm being truthful, I will tell you that Galway was the last time my life made sense.
I was in love there. I'd been in love before, and I'd been in love since, but the older I get the more I think you get one shot, one true love, the one you'd turn your life upside down for, the love you'd slay a dragon for. And I failed at that, because of distance, because she and I had responsibilities thousands of miles apart we needed to take care of, and we were both, in our hearts, far more willing to take care of the people who needed us than be happy.
If I'd stayed, I'd be a father by now, and I'd be living a far different life. Oddly enough, by certain measures my life is better back stateside. I wouldn't have my book contract. I wouldn't be writing the way I do. That all came about because I came home and I was lost and broken. So it's not all loss.
But it's 4 a.m. on St. Patrick's Day and I'm sipping at whiskey distilled in West Cork and and listening to the Parting Glass and, like very year since I came home, I'm mourning the last time I was truly happy.
We get one shot, everyone. When you find the place where you belong, when you find the one your heart belongs to, by god hold onto them. Because the world is a gray place if you don't.
Slainte. Good night and joy be with you all.