The last time I met David Monahan was three nights before I emigrated: here, we sat in the Metro Cafe off Grafton Street, nine months later. I was at home for two weeks to have Christmas with my family: breaking the first year away down the middle with the familiarity of Dublin in winter. He called to see if I was around for a catch-up. In the myriad of pints and family gatherings, I knew I had to talk to him again - I remembered how I had almost gone and poured all my anxieties about leaving home out to him in his car after the photoshoot, on my way to my going away party. Here is my story, I am terrified because I am not terrified, I am ready to go, I think, I think, I hope – I'm pretty sure that was how it went, all the way from the Bayside graveyard to Hartcourt Street. He'd met so many people on the same path as I was: sort of like the ferryman folks met on their way down the River Styx, you meet David before you emigrate. Thing is, he doesn't take the pennies from your eyes, but instead snaps your image on film: with that exchange, you are one of the people who slipped away to see the world, leaving Ireland on the other side.
