Dear Smythe...

The first of many dispatches from Dublin. Semi-factual, semi-fictional letters from a Yank living in the Pale.

May 29, 2023

Dear Smythe,

Thank you for your letter. It is remarkable how quickly it arrived. One would think you mailed it before I even left the States—it arrived home at the same time I did.

Yes, at home. Dublin is that now. It only took nine months here—the same amount of time it takes it brew a child—but I already know. For months, I dreaded the thought of going back to DC, despite how much I had to look forward to. I would be visiting family and friends, attending my sister’s graduation, and yes, even seeing you. Anyway, come back I did, and from the instant I arrived, I felt out-of-step. Life there is, for the most part, just as I left it and exactly why I wanted to leave. Friends are having babies, getting married, buying houses. I am happy for them and astounded that is all they want. I know it’s what you want too.

A little under a year ago, I took a chance and applied for a master’s degree that would propel me towards being what I have always known I am: a writer. I did not imagine that I would get in and move across the ocean. But what surprises me more is how much I have changed. I have realized most of my old dreams were really a shroud to mask my real passions. In our old home, it is easy to love the race. Work hard, make money, buy things, move up. The more you have, the more you want—it’s designed to never be enough. It’s addicting and it feels good until it doesn’t.

I moved to Ireland knowing nobody. Despite a dearth of financial freedom, I feel richer than I did for twenty-eight years in America. I have exactly what I need: a community of fellow writers, the security of belonging, and the knowledge that this is just the beginning. I have never felt so warm or so alive. I know that wherever I end up in our vast and beautiful world, Dublin will always be the place I call home. It is endlessly grey, but light shines from the spirit of the people and their island. And here, if I fall, there are hands to catch me—not only metaphorically. When I’m sick, I can afford to go to the doctor. My groceries are cheap and more astonishingly, made of real food. People work so they can live. Ireland takes care of its people.

I know you want me to come back, but I can’t. You’ll never change, and I’m not sure that I can fault you for that. I will miss you. I’ll miss my family and my friends. But I’m afraid that just isn’t enough. It never was.

Stay in touch. I’m not sure I can be your friend, but I know I can’t let you go. You’ll always be a part of me.

With love,

Marguerite