Turning 30, Part I
I met you a few weeks ago on the Dublin Bus headed towards Stillorgan. We sat upstairs right in the front, remember? Our heavy wool coats made us look chubby sitting side by side, and I linked my arm in yours. You didn’t ask me, but I told you about a little boy in the museum who grabbed hold of my pant leg and said, “How old are you, miss?” and I told him I was 30. “It felt like the truth, but it also felt like a lie.” The bus made that wide right turn around St. Stephens Green so that you leaned way into me and whispered, “I can relate.”