Baileys

A friend gave me a bottle of Baileys recently. I think the only time I’ve had Baileys was in Dublin, as a relaxing conclusion to my lunch at The Hairy Lemon. I was traveling solo and remember the service being ideal– prompt but not overly invasive, giving me time to write in my journal and consider what site I might visit next. I was seated in a tiny nook next to an unlit fireplace, rustic, dark wood along the walls and ceilings making it feel like a cozy, safe space. I love being able to conjure up the memory of that time and place, but also the feeling that I had when I was there.

Lately, I’ve been closing my eyes and picturing various scenes from my life in New York. I can vividly picture the tree-lined street in Jackson Heights I’d walk down to the farmers’ market on Sundays, or the colorful chaos of the dollar store where I’d find gift wrap or hardware so I could hang a picture up in my apartment, or even the grimy steps I’d walk down into the subway to board the R train almost every day for three years. Memory feels like a magic trick sometimes.