There wasn't a job to be had in all of Ireland back then, when we left. Nothing in the trades, to be sure, without buildings going up. Certainly nothing in the fine dining industry. There wasn't fine dining to be found in any corner of Dublin.
No money could be made in drinking or smoking dope, which was the main occupation of our generation. So we followed the well-worn path to America, to paying jobs and the hope of making something of ourselves.
Some of us put our heads down and plowed ahead, and some of us floated above it all, never quite gaining a sure footing. You couldn't get away from the drink, and once you had a bit of cash you discovered an entirely new class of illegal substances that took the edge off after a hard day of delivering food and taking orders.
Then came the day that you decided you were gay. We thought you were mad, or possibly brain-damaged. The partying was taking its toll.
You pulled away from us, seeing our disbelief as censure. Not all of us felt the same way as your father, who turned his back on you, but you treated us all the same. We lost touch. You didn't return calls, we gave up and stopped calling. Your sister told us you had decided that you weren't gay after all, but transgendered. There was talk of surgery, but she came from conservative Catholic stock and not much more was ever mentioned.
When your father died, you weren't there at the removal or the funeral. As the years went by, we'd ask after you but your mother only asked that we pray for you. You weren't well.
Now, as we prepare to celebrate a day of thanksgiving, your sister's gone home with your ashes in a box. She's not saying much, but some of us believe it was AIDS that took you. She had you cremated so your mother wouldn't see what you'd become.
On Thursday we'll sit at the table, to count up our blessings, and we'll thank God that we had the opportunity to know you.
Suiamhneas siorai.
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