España
There was a boy. There is always a boy. His name, Bernardo. He was from Valencia. He had red hair and brown eyes. He was like a teddy bear. Energetic and joyful, he had many friends. I hung onto him, like a little kid. He’d say, “Mary, do you undestand?” I would nod a yes. He would say, “seguro?” I would say, “seguro!” I didn’t understand everything but I loved being around the language and him, so I didn’t care. I dressed like them, the Spanish students that came to Firhouse, because I wanted to be them. Dark blue jeans, dark blue sweater, white shirt. But, I couldn’t match their smell. They wore a cologne that I still haven’t found. Who wore cologne in Ireland at fifteen years old in the eighties? I knew they had arrived when I saw from far off, two people hugging, holding hands or touching in some way. It was affectionate, comfortable, relaxed, no big deal, their way of being together. They were healthy, vibrant, happy. “Jayus, would yeh look a’ them?” One of the lo