Little Irish Girl

I remember a day, a long time ago, with a small Irish girl I knew little of.  We sat to gather in the meadow just letting the wing blow around us.  Nearby, a soft song rose from the thick grass.  I ignored it.  So many moor sounds filled my ears throughout the day; however, her ears pricked up.  She clasped her hands around the small insect tuning in the patch of grass and carried it to me with bright eyes asking me to look.   The insect was nothing special; yet, she chattered wistfully about an old woman from her home town.  Watching her I realized how many details of my life I'd overlooked.  From that day forward, I tried to look a little bit closer.

As I watched her play as the sun sat, I thought about how his behavior confused me often, and I used to wonder why we were even friends.  He seemed to breathe in his surroundings like air, not taking the time to notice why things were the way they were... or how they came to him.  One day, he would be sensitive, cherishing simple ways and gentle speech.  The next, he would criticize my intelligence for coming to this vast country.  The day I saw the look on his face after my mother's death, I finally knew he was merely a soft and uncomplicated boy who knew little of the world, and expected it to know little of him.  Those eyes, I remember, lowered and darkened eyelashes, with so much to learn.