20 May 1989
It was a Saturday and I remember it being particularly hot. I was on a passenger bus, somewhere in the middle of Ireland, on a journey that had started in London a day earlier and would end on the West Coast of Ireland sometime later that night.
I was sweating hard and felt sick to my stomach. It wasn't the sick feeling you might have after a dodgy meal or a heavy night on the town, it was a feeling akin to having the weight of the world on my shoulders. I didn't like it, but it wouldn't be shifted.
I'd lived in England for the two years prior and I was moving back to my hometown Westport. I was leaving behind a good job and friends; including a girlfriend who I was very close too, and that and a lot of other stuff was weighing heavily on my mind.
The bus rolled on, and it seemed that each of the driver's actions swayed me from side to side in my seat, leaving me unable to sit still or rest. The ventilation seemed non-existent and I remember seeing my sweat glisten as I stared at my reflection in the window.
It was a different age for mobile entertainment and all I had was a little portable radio which allowed me to catch fragments of the Liverpool and Everton FA Cup Final which was playing out as the bus lurched from small town to small town. Football was a rarity on TV back then and missing this game was just one of several things troubling me.
I remember a particular moment on the journey, catching a glimpse of my father in the seat behind and despite the heat and conditions he seemed happy, as always. He was wearing a suit and a tie; something he didn't often do, and I remember thinking he was mad in this heat. I didn't want to bother him, so I'd sneak an occasional glance in his direction out of the corner of my eye to make sure he was okay, without feeling the need to say anything.
You see my father had died a week earlier and I hadn"t expected to see him again.
I can't remember exactly when on the journey I stopped seeing him. I didn't look back often fearing a moment he wouldn"t be there. I"m not a religious man and I certainly don"t believe in ghosts and the like, but I've never forgotten how this strange little emotional trick calmed me in the face of everything I was feeling on that day.
I never did see my father again. He died on the 13th May 1989, a week after his 53rd birthday and 6 days after my 21st.
I walked up the steps and stood on the porch
A woman I didn"t recognize came and spoke to me through a chained door
I told her my story and who I"d come for
She said "I"m sorry son but no one by that name lives here anymore"
My Father"s House - Bruce Springsteen
