I remember:
The crunch of gravel under our boots the day Josh walked with me to Kathy’s grave. He leaned into me as we went, the warm pressure of his body steadying my trembling. Our breath clouded in the cold air—mine hitching as I fought not to break. At her grave, the raw, familiar weight drove me to my knees, but his nearness made it a burden I could bear. I’ll never forget his hands resting on my shoulders, or his voice—low and breaking—above me:“I’m here, my yedid.”
Day Five – Ennis → Sixmilebridge
Distance: 14 mi
Route Notes:
Quiet inland roads through Clare farmland, passing stone walls, hedgerows, and small villages before crossing the Owenogarney River into Sixmilebridge.
Location Reflection– Sixmilebridge:
The road out of Ennis winds through green, low hills and wet pasture. Cows watched from the shelter of a hedgerow, tails swatting at midges. When I crossed the Owenogarney into Sixmilebridge, something about the water, the slow bend, made me ache for the Rivanna. For home. For Joshua, waiting on our porch, the quiet between us gentle instead of heavy. The air here felt softer, the edges worn down. I should have felt relief, but I missed the sting—the salt, the Atlantic grit. Maybe I’m afraid that without the harshness, I’ll stop stripping away what I need to lose.
Journal:
The sound of my boots on the tarmac was steady, almost hypnotic. In the quiet, every thought got sharper, louder. The fields stretched out wide, but somehow, I felt closed in by what I carried. The wind slipped through the grass, whispering something I couldn’t quite catch.
Stopped in Clarecastle for tea. Burned my tongue—didn’t wait for it to cool. Sitting still felt too much like surrender. In Newmarket-on-Fergus, I watched an old man sweep his stoop, moving slow and steady, like the world wasn’t rushing anywhere. The church bell echoed down the lane, and for a moment, the sound felt like a memory I couldn’t reach.
Crossed into Sixmilebridge over the river. My legs were lead, head scraped hollow. Some part of me keeps asking—what the hell am I chasing? If I find it, will I even know?
I remember:
Walking home with Josh after that first summer storm. Drenched, shoes squelching, hair plastered to our heads—still laughing like fools. That was the moment I knew I’d follow him through any storm, just to hear that laugh again.
I see:
A farmer mending a stone wall, his hands sure and patient. Something in the rhythm caught me off guard. For a moment, I saw Danny in the set of his shoulders—the quiet certainty that the work would hold. It put a lump in my throat. I’ve been so wrapped in my own hurt, I almost missed the treasures life sets down right in front of me.
I feel:
Tired—bone tired. The kind that seeps past muscle and settles in the marrow. The wind leaves my skin raw, and inside Ifeel the same—scraped open, nothing between me and the world but my fragile ego.
Day Six – Sixmilebridge → Limerick
Distance: 12 mi
Route Notes:Follows quiet country roads and winding lanes through Clare farmland toward the River Shannon. The road passes through small villages and woodland paths before entering Limerick City from the north. Industrial buildings give way to Georgian facades as the city’s edge comes into view.
Location Reflection– Shannon Riverbank, near Limerick:
The river was slow and wide here, reeds rattling in the wind. Gulls floated overhead, hunting scraps along the muddy bank.
Journal:
The wind came in hard, tasting of salt and something sharper, and I let it cut through me, hoping it might strip away the blind spots I’ve carried for years—the iron grip I keep on the belief that every loss, every wound, begins and ends with me.
I remember:
Josh on a pier in Scituate, leaning over the railing to watch the boats. I stood back and watched him instead. There was a longing in his face I didn’t understand then something soft, almost painful. Now I know. It was the pull of the water he fears, the ache to be on it despite himself.
I see:
A boy and his father fishing along the bank near Glin, neither speaking. The air between them was weighted with everything they didn’t have to say. It pulled me back to Scituate, fishing with my dad—the easy silence, the comfort of it. But with Josh, thesilence is different. He told me not to call, not to text. We both know I need to walk this path alone. But Jesus, the loneliness is its own kind of wound.
I feel:
