{"id":3854,"date":"2026-10-24T15:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-10-24T14:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/?p=3854"},"modified":"2026-10-22T08:39:35","modified_gmt":"2026-10-22T07:39:35","slug":"nine-christmases-in-brisbane-ended-this-october-when-she-came-home-to-dromod-with-the-kids-and-a-one-way-ticket","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/nine-christmases-in-brisbane-ended-this-october-when-she-came-home-to-dromod-with-the-kids-and-a-one-way-ticket\/","title":{"rendered":"Nine Christmases in Brisbane ended this October when she came home to Dromod with the kids and a one-way ticket"},"content":{"rendered":"

The story<\/strong> begins in the shoulder<\/strong> season, when leaves fall sideways and flights arrive too late. She stepped into the cool air<\/strong> with two sleepy children<\/strong>, a paper envelope of documents, and a promise she\u2019d finally kept to herself.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

They were back in Dromod<\/strong>, where the river moves like a slow thought<\/strong>, and the platforms smell of iron and rain. She pocketed the ticket<\/strong> that didn\u2019t circle back, felt its stiff edge<\/strong>, and exhaled.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The flight that didn\u2019t loop<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

On the plane, she counted breaths<\/strong> and mapped the dark water<\/strong> below. The kids made blanket forts<\/strong> and swapped stickers like ambassadors<\/strong> at peace.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cAre we really staying, Mam?\u201d her son whispered<\/strong>, eyes thin with midnight<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re really staying<\/strong>,\u201d she said, the words simple and heavy<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

In the oval of her window<\/strong>, the world turned ink<\/strong> to pearl, and somewhere a sea changed its mind<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Seasons that never matched<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

Nine summers had cut through December<\/strong>, making barbecues a kind of hymn<\/strong>. In Brisbane, Santa wore sunscreen<\/strong>, and the fairy lights trembled against heat<\/strong>. She loved that glitter<\/strong>, loved it guiltily, always keeping a finger on the atlas<\/strong> page of home.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Here, October is a warning<\/strong>, crisp as a peeled apple<\/strong>. Coats wake from their long nap<\/strong>, and the ground grows a new vocabulary<\/strong> of damp.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do the robins sing<\/strong>?\u201d her daughter asked, palm pressed to a hedge<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cThey sing like kettles and news<\/strong>,\u201d she smiled, hearing her mother\u2019s old answer<\/strong> rise unbroken.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Things carried across water<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

From a city of glass<\/strong>, she brought small proofs<\/strong>:<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n
  • A jar of sand<\/strong>, still sun-warm in the mind<\/strong><\/li>\n

    <\/p>\n

  • Three thin shells<\/strong>, striped like late milk<\/strong><\/li>\n

    <\/p>\n

  • A crumpled recipe<\/strong>, ginger scrawled in spills<\/strong><\/li>\n

    <\/p>\n

  • Photos of the kids in hats<\/strong>, salt dried to stars<\/strong><\/li>\n

    \n<\/ul>\n

    <\/p>\n

    She also carried things that weighed<\/strong> nothing and took up all the room<\/strong>: the way summer thunder stacked over Queensland<\/strong>, the creak of a rented fan<\/strong>, the bright tyranny of a blue sky<\/strong> that never learned to stop at the edge<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    What the children remember<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cDo the cousins still have the trampoline<\/strong>?\u201d the boy asked<\/strong>, tugging at a ribbon of cloud<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cThey do,\u201d she said<\/strong>, already hearing the squeak of its old lungs<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cDoes Nana keep the biscuits in the blue tin<\/strong>?\u201d the girl asked<\/strong>, practicing the new time<\/strong> on her tongue.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cIn the blue tin<\/strong>, under the radio<\/strong>,\u201d their mother said, smiling into a past that had become the present<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    They were learning to name the cattle<\/strong>, to read the timetables of trains<\/strong>, to accept that rain is not a brief guest<\/strong> but a relative that stays for the weekend<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    A village catching her breath<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Dromod greeted them without fanfare<\/strong>, which is its sincerest form<\/strong> of celebration. Someone had trimmed the verges<\/strong>, someone waved from a van<\/strong>, someone said \u201cFair play\u201d like a priest with a benediction<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    At the shop, the bell made its small moment<\/strong>, and the woman at the till asked \u201cBack for good<\/strong>?\u201d in a tone both gentle<\/strong> and testing.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cFor good,\u201d she said, the answer as careful as a lit match<\/strong>, and as bright.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cAh, you\u2019ll be grand<\/strong>,\u201d the woman nodded, sealing the sentence with a bag<\/strong> of change.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    The reckoning no one sees<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Back home had been a long equation<\/strong>, scribbled in margins and receipts<\/strong>. There was the call from a school with too many turns<\/strong>, a friendship that went quiet<\/strong>, a boss who paused too long between \u201cWe\u2019re restructuring\u201d and the rest of the sentence<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    There was also a door she couldn\u2019t un-see<\/strong>: the one with her mother\u2019s face behind<\/strong> it, time making small cuts<\/strong>, nothing dramatic, everything true<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cCome when you\u2019re ready<\/strong>,\u201d her mother had said over the tinny rhythm of a video<\/strong> call. \u201cReadiness is a myth<\/strong>, but come anyway<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    So she sold the crib<\/strong>, the bikes, the idea that one more year would make it easier<\/strong>. She kept the kids\u2019 paper crowns<\/strong>, the wayward glitter<\/strong>, the phrase that had landed like a bird<\/strong>: enough is enough<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Learning the curve of here<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    October asked for practical things<\/strong>: a boot tray by the door<\/strong>, electricity rates explained at the table<\/strong>, names of nurses and teachers written twice in a neat, slanting hand<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    The kids tried on uniforms<\/strong>, stiff as new manners<\/strong>. She learned to say \u201cAny bit like butter<\/strong>\u201d at the deli, to nod at rain like an old acquaintance<\/strong> she once loved and left.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Some nights held a panic<\/strong>, neat and clinical, like a file she couldn\u2019t quite close<\/strong>. Then there\u2019d be the kettle\u2019s soft drum<\/strong>, the fox\u2019s crooked scream<\/strong>, the absurd consolation of a lamp that knows two kinds of dark<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    What she tells herself at night<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    She tells herself the move was a bridge<\/strong>, not a border<\/strong>. That a childhood is made of overlapping maps<\/strong>, not a single shining pin<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    She reminds herself that place is a verb<\/strong>, and she is learning how to conjugate<\/strong> it here: I am placed, I am placing<\/strong>, I am placed again<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cHome is where the next morning<\/strong> starts,\u201d she says, laying out socks with fierce ceremony<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cHome is where the kettle knows your reach<\/strong>,\u201d she hears her mother whisper back, a blessing disguised as a fact<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    The shape of the next holiday<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    There will be cake in a colder room<\/strong>, candles blown toward a window<\/strong> that fogs instead of flares. She will roast things that were once roots<\/strong>, tell jokes that know the roads<\/strong>, and sing the wrong verse before finding the right<\/strong> one.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    She will text friends far away<\/strong>, at hours that bruise the little clock<\/strong> on her phone. They will send sunlit photos<\/strong>, and she will send a picture of a puddle<\/strong> that looks like a sky trying to come back<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cKeep a seat,\u201d she\u2019ll write<\/strong>, and they will: at barbecues, at beaches, at the last table<\/strong> near closing time. \u201cKeep a seat,\u201d they\u2019ll write<\/strong>, and she will: at the range, at the fire, at the end of the pier<\/strong> where the river meets the lake<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    And if anyone asks why she chose this edge<\/strong>, she will say, \u201cBecause the edges are where maps speak<\/strong>, and I wanted to hear what ours would say<\/strong>.\u201d Then she\u2019ll put on the coat<\/strong>, lift the schoolbags like small, certain anchors<\/strong>, and step out into a morning that has remembered her name<\/strong>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3932,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3854","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-news","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-50"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3854","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3854"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3854\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3898,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3854\/revisions\/3898"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3932"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3854"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3854"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3854"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}