As summer approaches, Dublin has finally begun to thaw: after a half-year disappearance, the sun has warmed from a lifeless winter sulk to a cheerful spring glow. In the lengthening days, larger crowds than ever have been flocking to the performances on Grafton Street and the monuments on Trinity Campus. But I’ve been drawn most strongly to the wildflowers in Phoenix Park and the seagulls on the River Liffey, charmed by the city at its most ordinary.
As my Mitchell year draws to a close, my gratitude for Ireland has become bittersweet. Once I’ve left, I worry that I’ll forget the country’s quieter beauties: my photographs can remind me of packed pubs and verdant landscapes, but what could capture the feel of the wind on the clifftops, the sound of laughter around the dinner table, the scent of the hillsides after rain? And now that my friends have scattered to Austria, Australia, Trinidad, and elsewhere around the globe, how could the magic of our time together on the island ever be recreated?
But my farewell to Ireland may not be as permanent as I fear. Perhaps I’ll always have my constellations of friends, connected by our universe of experiences. Perhaps I’ll always maintain the joy of rediscovering the world, enchanted by the everyday. And perhaps I’ll always remember my life abroad like a sunset — enriched by its transience, welcoming a new dawn.