One evening, we were sitting outside a pub when my inner old lady started to sneer at the loud young crowd.
“I just hate this generation,” I said.
“No, you’re just jealous that they’re young,” P. replied.
Well, I didn’t hate their youth so much as I missed my own.
The pub used to be our “local” — as we called it — because it was the closest place to our apartment where we could have a pint of craft beer and listen to rock music. It was our little corner of the neighbourhood, the kind of place that slowly becomes part of your life without you even noticing.
There is no Dice Bar anymore. It disappeared during the pandemic. The new place isn’t bad — in fact, the beer is probably better — but it isn’t the same. The music has changed. The crowd has changed. And so have we.
Perhaps this is what getting older really means: not waking up one morning and suddenly feeling old, but watching the world you knew quietly disappear around you.
Passing time — the thing I am probably more afraid of than anything else — had found its way onto our street.
I look at the changing skyline along the Luas line. New buildings keep rising; old ones slowly fall into disrepair. The same spots where we used to sit through long Saturday nights are now occupied by a completely different crowd.
A city is a living, growing organism. It pulses with life, constantly building and breaking down, replacing and transforming. Growth and decay happening simultaneously.
Nothing stays the same. Not even us.
picture credit: www.smithfieldandstoneybatter.ie
Leave a comment