A Time to Return

A short story focused on a moment in time in which a life-changing decision is made

This week, I am trying something new—a short story that came to me during a songwriting retreat in Glencolmcille, County Donegal, Ireland. If you would like to listen to me reading the story aloud (and singing a bit, too!), just click on the link below.

Danny O’Donnell knew it was time to return to Ireland when the sun streaming through the kitchen window glinted in his eyes and the pan he was holding crashed to the floor. It had been a long time coming, this longing for home. In fact, when he had left Donegal twenty years before, he had sworn never to return. His dreams were too big and his memories were too bitter.

“Damn,” he said, picking up the now dented pan from the floor and drawing the shade to protect his eyes from the glaring summer sun. The early morning heat and humidity were already sending rivers of sweat down his back. Thoughts of cloud-filtered light and green mountains jutting into the sea suddenly descended upon him, and the pan fell from his hands and crashed to the floor again.

Stooping to pick up the twice dented pan, he looked around the penthouse he had so recently shared with Araceli. It was lonely and still now that she was gone. The worst part was that the smells of her body still lingered in its recesses, taunting him and bringing on waves of sadness that surprised him.

He had never believed she would actually go—even though she had told him often enough that she would. Nor had he realized how much he would miss her when she finally made good on her threat.

As always, when emotion welled up uncomfortably inside of him, Danny reached for his guitar. Carrying his cup of coffee in one hand and his guitar in the other, he walked barefoot across the cool marble floor of his living room—past the black leather sofa, the red and black splotches of the abstract painting hanging on a wall, the glass bookshelves on which his three dusty Grammys looked particularly forlorn now that Araceli’s plants and books were gone—and out onto the balcony overlooking the high rise towers of midtown Manhattan.

Danny eased himself into the welcoming recesses of a chair, its cushion a jumble of reds, yellows and purples. His gaze was drawn, almost against his will, to an identical chair beside him. Araceli had bought the cushions in a little tienda during one of their numerous sailing trips to Cancun, and her laughter and passion were embedded in them. Her tears as well.

“There’s a wall around you, Danny,” Araceli had said once, “that locks me out. No matter what I do, I can’t break through it.” After years of trying, she’d finally given up.

Slowly, almost without thinking, Danny began to strum his guitar and sing softly to himself. It was a few minutes before he realized that he was singing an old Irish folksong.

Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows

Fair is the lily of the valley

Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne

But my love is fairer than any.

Danny shook his head in disbelief. Why on earth am I singing this? he wondered. But the words kept coming.

It’s not for the parting with my sister Kate

It’s not for the grief of my mother

It’s all for the loss of my bonny Irish lass

That my heart is breaking forever.

Danny put his guitar down and closed his eyes to protect them from the full brunt of the sun hitting the balcony. A big mistake, he soon realized, as memories began flooding over him.

He and a young woman were standing on a hillside overlooking Glencolmcille. The wind was blowing strands of red hair across her grief-distorted face.

“I can’t…we can’t…not ever,” she said. “Not now . . .”

Danny watched his younger self nod slowly, turn around and walk away, his shoulders bowed and his chest sunken. Danny shook his head. Why didn’t I fight for her? Stand by her? How could I have simply walked away without even trying?

Regrets weren’t going to change anything now. The time for would’ve, should’ve, could’ve was long gone. He put down the guitar and jumped quickly to his feet, sloshing coffee across the white marble floor. That damn song was going through his mind again. Maybe a shower would clear his head.

The hot water streaming over his naked body felt good, and his tense muscles began to relax. It took him several minutes to realize that tears were streaming down his cheeks. Before he could stop them, they had turned into sobs that shook his entire body.

Danny turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, dried himself off, and walked to his computer. By 1:00 pm he was on a plane to Dublin.