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424 pages, Hardcover
First published March 1, 2019
"Yes. I told you. You told me. And you will tell me again. Only the wind knows which truly comes first.”This story starts with Anne Gallagher at her dying grandfather’s side. Her heart is broken. Eoin isn’t just Anne’s grandfather. He’s her confidant, her best friend, and he raised her. After Eoin passes, he wishes for Anne to take him back to the one place they’ve never traveled. Back to his hometown in Ireland. Anne is grieving, but also excited to be here. She feels closer to Eoin than ever. As she goes to spread his ashes as she promised, something strange happens…
“Thomas?” I moaned into his mouth. “Yes?” he murmured, his body thrumming beneath my hands. “I want to stay,” I panted. “Anne,” he demanded, swallowing my sighs and caressing my cares away. “Yes?” “Please don’t go.”
Anne – 1921
She is the same, but not the same at all

"You must read the book, Annie. Promise me you’ll read the book. He loves you so much, and he’s been waiting so long."

I paused over a picture of a grand house with trees clustered around the edges and a glimmer of lake in the distance. “What is this place?” I asked, breathless. “That is Garvagh Glebe.”

”Someday your great-great-grandchildren will come to Ireland. They will walk up the hill where you are laid to rest, and they will sit by the stone that bears your name. They will know that this was your home, and because it is your home, it is theirs as well.
That is what Ireland does.
It calls her children home."

Thomas Smith was the kind of man who would slip into and out of a room without drawing much attention. He wasn’t loud or obtrusive even as he moved and acted with an innate confidence. He was simply Thomas Smith, as ordinary as his name,
and yet . . . not ordinary at all.


The history after the 1916 Easter Rising is just a garbled mess of opinions and blame.


Tragedy make for great stories ...



"He wants me to take the fall when it fails."

I have come to terms with the fact that idealism often rewrites history to suit her narrative. The truth is, the English are not all tyrants, and the Irish are not all saints. Enough blood has been cast, to condemn us all ... but Ireland deserves her independence ...

Death in Ireland meant a life in Ireland, not a life as an immigrant somewhere else.


Béal na mBláth

There are too many lost souls in Ireland because of politics ...

Don't go near the water, love.
Stay away from strand or sea.
You cannot walk on water, love;
the lough will take you far from me



Where apples still grow in November
Where blossoms still bloom from each tree
Where leaves are still green in November
It's then that our land will be free
I wander her hills and her valleys
And still through my sorrows I see
A land that has never known freedom
And only her rivers run free
I drink to the death of her manhood
Those men who rather have died
Than to live in the cold chains of bondage
To bring back their rights were denied
Oh were are you now when we need you
What burns were the flame used to be
Are you gone like the snow of last winter
And will only our rivers run free
How sweet is the life but we're crying
How mellow the wine but its dry
How fragrent the rose but its dying
How gentle the breeze but it sighs
What good is in youth when its aging
What joy is in eyes that can't see
When there's sorrow in sunshine and flowers
And still only our rivers run free
- Mickey MacConnell
We turn memories into stories, and if we don’t, we lose them. If the stories are gone, then the people are gone too.

There are some paths that inevitably lead to heartache, some acts that steal men’s souls, leaving them wandering forever after without them, trying to find what they lost.
"The wind and water know all the earth’s secrets. They’ve seen and heard all that has ever been said or done. And if you listen, they will tell you all the stories and sing every song. The stories of everyone who has ever lived. Millions and millions of lives. Millions and millions of stories"
⁕ I told you. You told me. And you will tell me again. Only the wind knows which truly comes first
⁕Thomas Smith was the kind of man who would slip into and out of a room without drawing much attention. He wasn’t loud or obtrusive even as he moved and acted with an innate confidence. He was simply Thomas Smith, as ordinary as his name,
and yet . . . not ordinary at all.
⁕Don’t forget to read the book. He loved you. He loved you so much. He’s been waiting, Annie
⁕I can’t imagine all men love their women the way I love Anne. If they did, the streets would be empty,
and the fields would grow fallow. Industry would rumble to a halt and markets would tumble as men
bowed at the feet of their wives, unable to need or notice anything but her. If all men love their wives
the way I love Anner, we would be a useless lot. Or maybe the world would know peace. Maybe the
wars would end, and the strife would cease as we centered our lives on loving and being loved.
⁕i love her with an intensity i didnt think myself capable of. yeats writes about being changed utterly. i am changed utterly. irrevocably. and i can only revel in all its gloriousness
When you fall in love in the past, is there such a thing as tomorrow?
Someday your great-great-grandchildren will come to Ireland. They will walk up the hill where you are laid to rest, and they will sit by the stone that bears your name. They will know that this was your home, and because it is your home, it is theirs as well.
That is what Ireland does.
It calls her children home.





