Walk Home

And now he’s got me wondering what kind of boulder I’m hauling around….??

Na trioblóidí

I decided to walk home. I told my wife.

“You can’t go home again,” she says.

“Sez who?”

“Says everyone. ‘You can’t go home again,’ that’s what they all say, and if everyone says it, it must be true.”

“Well, I reckon I’ll have to show everyone, won’t I just?” says I.

And I left home. Our home, that is. To go back to mine.

I set out walking.

After a considerable amount of time had passed, I saw my friend Phil. He was standing under an oak tree, smoking a cigarette.

“How ’bout ye, mucker?” I said. “Got any?”

“None so much,”  he replied, shaking his head. “Listen, though; I need you to do something for me; I need you to go home.”

“I am going home.”

“Aarrgh!” He threw his cigarette on the ground and crushed it out with his boot. “You can’t just say it like that!…

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