All from the capital city would come by to confer with the Irishman, the dark one who led their imaginations toward a better St. Paddy Day's parade.
I was set atop the bartop, black hair and sallow skin. He gave me the sparkle of Irish mischief in my saddle shoes and eyes. Poppa had handed me a leprechaun's white clay pipe, the stem so thin and elegant I could only imagine someone as clever as he using it.
I have it still. I use it now to help weave a different story. But tonight my eyes keep closing mid sentence, only to jerk awake with moisture threatening to slip down my chin. The fire's so cozy. And the miles spent to get here have me mellowed.
Perhaps tomorrow...
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