The old moon was in the arms of the new moon which December night, and I tried to forgive my transgressions – mine and those of others – and I failed. I didn’t yet know that the coming year would be marked by defeat after defeat. I was mired in my anger, lifting the wounds to the sky like a chalice. But hope was emerging, even if I couldn’t grasp it, because then I couldn’t hold on to anything good. Not yet.

But I need to move forward, then move back a little. No, actually, no – let me stay in this moment. Me, alone in a hotel room, in a Donegal city, a strange place for me, with seasons sharper than those of my own county. And the moon a seductive slice of opaline, clinging to its darker half. I wanted to go out and look at the moon, like it always asks me to look at it. So, I put on my new silver coat – a morale-boosting purchase – and went out for a walk into the cold night.

I was in Donegal thinking everything about me and Cormac, deciding whether I wanted to move forward side by side or not. I thought the distance and ancient immutability of Donegal – the very character of Donegal – would reset me, clarify things or give me solid, obvious answers. But, of course, none of that was happening because I was resolutely uptight, annoying, and hurt.

It was freezing under the glory of the waxing moon, pinned above the Atlantic. I followed the dike and kept my eyes turned towards the sky and this happy crescent. The tide was low, but I could hear the lullaby of the water a little further away and its call was sweet to my ear. I wandered and looked at the moon, scanning its seas and craters where I could, basking in its glow. And as my eyes were turned towards the sky, I managed to hit a man who was walking on the path; he screamed and jumped back.

“For the love of Mary,” he said, “be careful where you step, mademoiselle.”

And all I could say was, “Oh my God, it’s You! » while I gaped at my grandfather’s face, equipped with planetary glasses, and heard his cane hit the sidewalk frantically. tips.

Grandpa pushed back his hat and looked at me with narrowed eyes. “Ah,” he said.

I was stunned. “But you’re… we buried-“

He passed through me. “What do you have here, my miss?” He leaned his head closer to mine, and in his hazy breath I caught a whiff of whiskey and deep, damp clay.

My miss! Grandfather always called me that. I blinked. “The moon has me here,” I said.

"With your pike on your shoulder, as the moon rises," » he sang, his rebel voice still powerful. He laughed. “No, I meant here. Donegal. What brings you this far north?

“Oh, things,” I mumbled. Should I charge it? “Thoughts. Life,” I said, and stared at him, because what else was there to do? Dead and unharmed for eight years in a Galway cemetery, yet he stood before me, with a stick and a tweed hat, speaking casually. I squeezed my eyes and opened them again. Grandfather hesitated. I reached out my hand, but he backed away.

“Your heart hurts, my daughter,” he said, “it’s written on you.”

I nodded. “What has You here tonight, grandfather?

He looked toward the ocean. “I’m looking,” he said.

“For what?”

His eyes rested on mine. “One person. A girl. Dressed in stars. One in silver. He hit the dike with his stick. “Or maybe a woman?”

We stood side by side and looked at the dark sand, the black water; the moon, suspended in the ink above, cast a pearly light. The waves danced towards us, supple and gyrating, a chorus line of foam. The floor shone, the wall too. My ears burned from the cold; I pulled my coat tighter around me.

“So beautiful here,” I said.

“What should we do, miss? » Grandpa asked, and his voice was softer now, a hushed whisper.

Something squeezed my heart, the pang of guilt, the soggy memory of my last fight and of Cormac. I tried to push everything away, wanting the feelings to rot like old leaves.

“I don’t know what to do,” I said. The emotion in my heart was now visceral, but I couldn’t grasp its exact meaning.

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“Trust yourself,” Grandpa said. “Trust that clarity is coming. Polish your mind a little. His words were soft to my ear.

“Yes,” I whispered, “I try.” And my voice came to me sleepily, from somewhere beyond myself. I breathed deeply of the crystal clear air, I listened attentively.

“Remember, my miss,” Grandfather called, “forgiveness is a beautiful thing.”

Placing my hand at chest level, I summoned my senses to help me. “Forgive,” I said. “Continue.”

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I fixed my eyes on the curve of the moon. A star began to appear at its northern tip, dazzling silver. I turned to smile at Grandpa, grateful to him, but all I found before me was the smoke of my own exhalation; below me, the untouched frost of the trail.