Mickey

(North Earl Street Series).

Before they put that frigging portal there,

that was your spot.

You would park your Harley,
set up your game,
and invite people to play.

I would sit on the step
and watch the world go by.

You always had
a Werther's Original for me.

You believed in Werther's Originals.

Not casually.

With conviction.

You swore by them,
and because of you,
they became a small kindness
I looked forward to.

I remember the days
after the riots.

The protests stretched along O'Connell Street.

The lines were drawn.

The others stood on one side.

We stood on the other.

And the Gardaí formed a boundary
between us.

While everyone else seemed caught up
in tension and arguments,
you were sitting there
chatting away
to a young Garda from Monaghan
as though you had known him for years.

Then you embarrassed me.

You told him
I had been on television.

I wished you hadn't.

You were delighted with yourself.

The sign had read:

"Peace in Dublin.
No to violence.
Stand together."

You made sure everyone knew.

I scarce see you now.

The portal took your spot.

Your Harley spot.

Your game spot.

The little corner of the city
that had become yours.

So you moved elsewhere,
as people do
when cities decide
they have other plans.

But when I think of you,

I don't think of the Harley.

Or the game.

Or even O'Connell Street.

I think of sitting on those steps,
a Werther's Original in my hand,

while you laughed,
told stories,
and reminded a television-shy friend

that, for one brief moment,

she had made the news.