I miss you so much. I’ve been looking for you all these years and sending mails but G. told me that you could hardly read now. I keep faith, however. I don’t know if you stayed in England , returned to Ireland or moved to the country of your loved one. One day, in Dublin , I hope I’ll bump into you. Tears will then fall down my eyes. We’ll go for a pint in an old and dark pub, down in Rathmines or along the Liffey.
Will you see the tears of joy rolling down my cheeks or will the disease have won and made you a blind man?
I never realized how much I cared for you until I lost your trace. I am sad not to have told you that I love you. You moved me like very few people do.
I miss your soft and calm voice, your accent as clear as crystal, your hand on my arm when we walked together, that evening. I miss the diluted blue of your eyes and the way you looked at things. I remember that wonderful evening when we shared an Indian meal in my apartment. You were sitting on the floor and you started talking about Irish history. You told the british colonization, the brutal oppression of your justice and language, the fight for independence, and all of us were quiet and listening to you. You were speaking slowly to make sure my brother and sister would understand everything, and they did. They were “drinking your words”. I loved the pride that you had about your country and people. I miss your free spirit, your wisdom and your delightful humour.
That evening, you told us why your local pub was called “The Hole in the wall”. Since then, I’ve been waiting for the day when you’ll take me there. We’ll talk for hours while sipping the black stuff. Like in the old days, Feargus.