Monday, December 22, 2008
"Night is a world lit by itself."
My brother moved recently to a crumbly farmhouse in the middle of a great green nowhere. He was insistent that I see his home before departing Ireland again; so one cold night we set out from Mater's gate and sank deeper into the countryside.
My sibling was in a fine jocular mood, full of proud delight to show me where he lived, that he had chosen a corner of heavy silence and unsullied beauty.
He narrated, for my benefit, directions that explained the path we were taking and the precise location of the house.
A colossal full moon shimmered over us, closer than we had ever seen it and promising to touch the treetops in an instant.
From the frost-coated window I could distinguish the silhouette of hedges, the curve of fields dark and bare. The road was suddenly impossibly narrow, pocked here and there with dents.
Then my brother said, "turn left at the moon," turning left and laughing, the house emerging ghostly pale from the shadows.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 3:54 PM