The Irish House

pickups

The last time I was in any airport, I was coming back from a ballet competition in Montreal.

I had won the solo round and received a golden trophy that now lies in my large black duffle bag. It was my first ever medal, and I couldn't stop smiling. My phone was buzzing with congratulations from everyone, but my family. Since I never told them anything. Nobody could tell me jack, because I beat out one of Canada's best ballet dancers, who were way more experienced than I was, and proved every single doubter of mine wrong.

I wanted to put my hair in my floral bonnet today for the flight, I felt too tired to do my hair, but chose to leave my black braids in a ponytail. I can't stand it when people take pictures, or ask "what is that on your head?"

None of your damn business.

I'm just relived that I have landed at Dublin airport, after dealing with Pearson, and Heathrow in London. Although, I selfishly wish something terrible happened, and my plane crashed into the ocean.

It's mid afternoon, and the airport is bustling. Mothers with annoying children, couples reuniting, and an old lady complaining about a missing bag. Mostly in Irish accents.

I have a black hoodie on with black sweatpants, and dirty black and white Air Jordon's. The looks of TSA agents make me feel uneasy. I cant tell if it's because their threatened by my demeanor, or because I dressed wrong for the weather.

I finally retrieve my last piece of luggage and walk toward the entrance of the airport.

I was 16 the last time I was here. A short muscular girl, carrying bags twice her weight, with light in her eyes, travelling alone. I remember the smell of the overpriced coffee shop beside the convenience store. I remember my mother crying, and my dad's face of disapproval.

'Why must you forsake this family, eh? And leave your education for dance!' My mum dramatically said.

My dad didn't even say goodbye to me, just expressed a downcast look. An exact copy of my brother. My sister hugged me tightly and whispered that she loved me so much. I wonder if she still does.

As I'm walking, I realize I don't even have a ride home. I barely remember my old house address, and I forgot to ask Adora when I spoke to her. Who knows, maybe my parents live in a different neighborhood now. A different town.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ri-

"Nor girl! Have you arrived already?" the thick Irish accent speaks.

"Yes, Adora. But how do I get home, and what's the address?"

"Oh, poor girl! I forgot to tell you- oh my head is all wahala. Find one of the green taxis. Or is it blue?"

I look outside for a green or blue taxis, and see a blue one parked on the left side of the street. A black haired woman droops her head down onto the steering wheel, almost like she's sleeping. I look at the sticker that covers the side of the car, Satellite Taxis.

"Is it Satellite-"

"Satellite Taxis! Yes, good."

"Cool. Could you text me the address."

"Nor girl, you know I don't know how to text on these machines! Took me months to finally get the hang of calling on a modern cell phone. I'll read it out to you."

I tell Adora to wait until I have reached the blue car with the sleeping woman. I knock on the window and she jumps in her seat. I tell her I need a ride, and she smiles at me.

Smiles. What a rare thing for me.

I put my phone on speaker so my godmother can speak out the address to the woman, she tells me her name is Kelly. She's very sweet to me and offers to help me with my bags.

"I can't wait until you get here. I have your bedroom made and everything! Remember the old bedroom, you would always have sleepovers during the summer with your cousins and friends from Dublin. You were so cute."

One thing about Adora, she's an old lady who likes to talk.

The weather is surprisingly warm, with a calm breeze. The sun hits my eyes through the glass, and I squint. I don't realize I'm still on the phone with my godmother when I hear her gasp.

"Baby, do you have the right money? Remember we don't do Canadian dollars here, oh. It's euros. Don't confuse the money for pound sterling. The English don't own us here! Ha!"

"Yes, ma."

And with that, she bids me bye and hangs up.

Kelly tries to be friendly with me. Asking me about myself and why I'm in Ireland.

I went against my family's wishes and went to dance in Toronto, became depressed, and tried to end my life several times. Everyone gave up on me, and now I'm going back to Ireland so I don't try to kill myself. I have no college education, and no job. I also don't want to talk to you, thanks very much.

I keep it short and sweet and ask her to turn the radio station up so the silence isn't so loud. Hopefully she doesn't fall asleep behind the wheel.

Like I would actually care.

I'm tired and feel like sleeping, but I want to observe the drive.

See Dublin. My beginning.