I saw her then
around the hundredth bend since Galway
cherub rosy cheeks of youth
in the misty rain.
By instinct, I pulled to the roughened side
hastily clearing the seat of
rain pants, extra socks, and water bottle
ahead of rushed exhalations of thanks.
Sensible brown boots and backpack first
blue and white well-worn, patterned skirt
over black tights, and frayed herder’s jacket.
She unraveled a colorfully woven headscarf
to release auburn dreadlocks;
against skin so fair, she could have been a
She called herself Cari.
From her Czech-English I heard
In the briefest of full looks
while driving left side,
I saw her eyes —
the lightest of greens;
iridescent like Bahama seas.
They told me the story of a curious
and trusting wanderer
hitchhiking across Eire,
as she had Finland
and will –
With her lustrous cheeks warming
she relayed her studies in anthropology,
while I asked her about religion,
I asked if her mother worried.
(she told me she carried a knife)
She climbed out
thirty four kilometers later at Clifton
not at all wanting to accept
the fifteen euro I shoved
into her gloveless hands.
Waving goodbye, I realized
each of us has the courage
to become a pilgrim;
to let go,
and step into the void of mystery,
the magic of the possible.
All that is required
And a willingness
to fall in love again
~ Jennifer Comeau, 02 April 2015