Just look at the world now; just look at the people in the streets! We might wish that this is good old Ireland, that it’s Ulster made anew. But it isn’t, it’s something completely different and it’ll continue to go that way, despite how many flags I hold in the marches. We used to be separate: my da worked in the mill, took Hamiltonsbawn to and from his home, prayed at St. Mark’s, and never saw any Catholics. And if he did, he’d look away and spit. But now I go up Hamiltonsbawn, past the abandoned mill, and work in an office in a tiny room with three desks. They’re Catholics that work in that room with me— my niece goes to uni with their children. My best friend fell in love, married, and died in Kabul to protect his Catholic wife from potential acts terrorism. We’re all integrated. There’s even Polish people opening shops in the square, and they’re Catholic, too! I found one of Maggie’s notes, something she jotted down before she got taken to hospital. It was a reminder to check on the hawthorne by the old well we used to walk to, before the troubles. She tied a cloth braid to the hawthorne, asking to end all this, asking that everyone would just get along and forget the differences of the past, leave it well enough alone. I had forgotten about that; I blamed them for her suffering. Yesterday, I go back to the spot, to that well where we’d sit under the tree and watch the wind play among the leaves and in her hair… The tree was gone, fallen during a storm I’d assume. Nothing was there, no sign of branches or debris; it must have been cleaned up. Only the large stump clawing up into a shredded trunk remained. I don’t know what to think anymore, other than: is this what she wanted? I’m not sure, but Ireland’s changed; and either I’m standing with the tide, or I’ll be swept away.