Day Trip to the Cliffs of Moher
Six hundred feet below me, the sea doesn't roll—it stretches. Slowly and surely, without fanfare, to the edges of existence. In the distant haze, the horizon line is indistinct. Soft blue skies and deep blue waters meld together in joyous, blurry harmony. I am warm, dry, safe, happy. Standing on the edge of my origin story.
A cloud passes overhead as I walk; the shade is cool and welcome. Tiny yellow flowers dot the cliffs to my left and right: invasive, impetuous, unflappable.
There's a couple I passed on the way here—a man in a white T-shirt and ball cap, a woman in a windbreaker and ponytail—perched on the edge of one of the cliffs, legs dangling. I thought to myself, I could never be that brave. But here I am, a mile or so later, my whole body sinking into the long green grass, one good roll away from a splashy epilogue. I am nineteen and glorious. I am ready for the world.
