My reflection assures me, yes this is me, I am here. Here on a train in Ireland on my way to my next housesit.

The sea to my right looks awfully close. With just a narrow strip of grass between sand and train track there is an illusion that we are travelling along on the sand. The sea is shining a greyish aqua blue colour. Out on the horizon it disappears blending into the slate grey sky. An odd person and dog on the beach – what a haven for a dog. The train is slowing down as we approach a village. Passing a dog digging like mad, sand flying everywhere, owner kneeling down as if coaxing the dog out of the hole who by now has proudly dug himself down past his chest. The train quickly picks up speed as we leave the station. In and out of tunnels. Lots of rock, cliffs, an island in the distance. My insides drop. I am my brother Conor in his train, passing through the Rockies, in and out of tunnels. Trying to imagine how he was feeling before the crash; excited I am sure as he neared his girlfriend who was waiting for him at the Edmonton rail station. Thankfully distracted by movement and voices I am back in my own train. A woman sits down directly across from me in this arrangement of four seats: two and two facing each other with a table in the middle. She has bright red hair. Mine certainly can’t be that bright. Trying not to stare I turn to the window hoping to get a reflection to do a comparison. The other arrival across from me is a young girl, 19, maybe 20. Blonde. Books on swimming coach proceedures on her lap. Remembering my children in swimming lessons. Jason as a young boy working hard through the levels hoping one day to become a coach himself. Heart wrenching watching him in the pool. Refusing to stay at home and rest. The only child with marks on his scalp left over from 5 weeks of daily radiation treatments. Bursting love for this child as he perseveres. I am immediately transported to my home on the farm when the reality of him being a swimming coach one day was extinguished. The sound of running water. Jason age 9 having a bath. The bath should be filled by now. Calling Jason. No answer. Bursting through the door. Yelling for Tom.  Jason is unconscious. Water licking at his chin. The shock that jolted through me as we pulled him out. Not knowing what was happening. Off to the hospital. Jason was diagnosed with partial complex seizures. Water was now a danger. He must be watched carefully. Never swim alone. No more baths. Showers only. Don’t lock the door. Try telling that to a teenage boy. Over the years the bathroom became a place of many accidents which still haunt me to this day when in there.

An impending sneeze snaps me to the present. The young girl is doing her face- she has spread out all of her cosmetics, skin creams onto the table. Powder is going on now and with each flick of the brush, powder particles come my way. It is going to be big as I urgently rummage through my bag for a tissue. Buffering the explosion the redhead meets my eyes. Wow she has red eyebrows like me. She returns to her phone so I have a good look at her. Yep, red eye lashes and freckles. Pale skin. Rosy cheeks. Just like me. One of my people !  Her hair is cut short with tight curls giving her a harsher look. She removes her rain jacket and my god she is wearing purple. I am wearing purple. A purple cardigan and purple fleece jacket. The young girl now heavily made up, no longer fitting the swimming coach image, is noticeably intrigued by her purple clothed redheaded neighbours. An announcement in Gaelic diverts her attention off us. We must be coming into a large place. Graffiti all along the sea wall. Looking to my left I am amazed- life is happening, busy- cars, buildings, buses, hotels, people rushing. I have been looking the whole time to my right, seduced by the sea. As we enter the station a clear reflection shockingly reveals our hair colour is almost identical.  A flurry of activity: people getting off and new people boarding. A new arrival of a group of students all in their school uniforms sit down on the opposite side of the train. I am amazed, then thrilled, to see freckled arms and legs in the mix. The freckles and colouring just like mine. These teenagers were not trying to cover them up. I remember so clearly being embarrassed and self conscious of mine. Avoiding wearing t shirts and shorts. It started when we moved to a small community on Northern Vancouver Island. Other kids staring and teasing me about my red hair and freckled skin. To the aboriginal children I was an alien from a different planet. Now here I am 40 years later and it is quite the feeling seeing other people with the same colouring. A sort of belonging feel. It certainly is becoming very evident to me where I decend from.

Throughout my time in Ireland I have been stopped numerous times by anxious looking motorists or pedestrians asking me for directions. The relieved look on their faces thinking they have found a local Irish resident that will set them right. The perplexed look on their faces upon hearing my accent, ” I am sorry but I am from Canada. ”   I had an experience while housesitting in Limerick –  I was walking to my car with bags of groceries when a group of East Indian tourists were coming towards me. They pulled out their cameras pointing in my direction. I looked behind me. No one there. They smiled at me. I smiled at them, uprighted my slumped posture, and decided it was easier to play the part. I actually did feel Irish at that moment.