Eerie is the absence of people in the presence of dead houses. Mournfully dead houses that once were alive and had once sheltered a handful of families now lie wasting and overgrown with tall grass in the deserted village. Large, crumbling stones attempt to maintain a shelter-like formation but yield unwillingly to the unjust cycles of time. These stones have been heaved from the bowls of the native soil for the purpose of human survival, but now they resemble jagged, shattered teeth protruding from the ground. Long blades of grass sprout out from within the bedroom, kitchen, and fireplace. Sheep wonder aimlessly in and out of the village, weaving through the hills speckled with ruined homes. Famine had chased out the men, women, and children from the quaint village, consuming any lingering life source that may have prevailed, then spitefully regurgitating the damaged debris onto the green of Achill Island. The warmth of numbers in families has been replaced by the drafty winds that blow through the cracks in the mortar of which sturdy stones have been plucked. Windows where neighbors once leaned into to shout a morning greeting have dissolved into massive gaps in the wall. There are no thatched roofs to withstand the rain. Such meager frame work hardly passes as a soup bowl for muddy puddles. But despite the ghost of abandonment, and despite the haunting allurement of tragedy, there is something most bizarre about the nostalgic feeling experienced by the people of today who have never known the comfort of the detached stones. Here, in the deserted village, a touch of human existence has come and gone, leaving behind pieces of their humble abodes to be gawked at by their successors. Though primitive, a connection between our world-- their past world, can be made through the useless stones scattered upon the ragged grass. The stones that were, at some time, carried, placed, and admired by the past generations are now only touched by ours, but through the stone, an ancient hand touches one of our own. A trace of life still swarms around the village, deserted as it is, even after its submission to the inclement weather. Nevertheless, man has passed through the village, and man has passed out, but the remains of the human touch will be forever lodged within the stones of the dead homes on Achill Island.
© Mikal Minarich
© Mikal Minarich
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