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         "Missus Madigan? It's the couple coming to look at the house on the phone. They say their flight got delayed quite a bit, and they'll be about forty-five minutes late. They want to know if that's alright with you."
         Catherine Madigan looked up from her book and towards the young woman standing in the kitchen doorway. Her focus in her reading lead to a few seconds of having to register and consider the question that had been asked.
         "Oh...tell them that's perfectly alright, dear. No bother at all."
         "Yes, ma'am. I'll let them know."
The woman retreated back into the kitchen. As the door swung closed, the thought crossed Catherine's mind, as it had many times before, that nurse's scrubs did not suit a woman like that, in the prime of her life. Catherine had long held that her caretaker should have been one to spend most of her time out on the town, wearing beautiful dresses and attending fancy parties, not spending more than half of her week taking care of an old woman like Catherine Madigan. She had never put these thoughts to words, of course, but she did make a conscious effort to frequently send the girl home early.
         Adjusting herself in her chair, Catherine considered returning to her reading, but decided against it. The book was a bit on the slow side, anyways. She closed it and carefully set it on the small table next to her, having to hold it with both hands to keep it steady. That done, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes to help herself gather her thoughts. What had the nurse asked her about? Oh, yes; the young couple that was coming by to look at the house today. Catherine hoped very much that they would like what they saw; she loved her home, had loved it for over thirty years now, and would hate to think of it being empty and uncared for after she passed. She had many memories in this house, both made here and stored here, and wished more than anything that it would continue to hold precious memories for another once she was gone.
         Memories.
         That thought gave her an idea of how to pass the time while she waited for her potential buyers to arrive. She opened her eyes, and, grabbing her cane from beside her chair, slowly pulled herself on to her feet. A dull pain drifted through her right leg, but it was gone after a few seconds, and forgotten soon after. Catherine moved to the fireplace and, after leaning her cane against the bricks, reached up to the mantel to slowly bring down a large photo album that had rested there. Tucking it under her arm, she called out to the woman in the kitchen.
         "Moira, dear? I'm going to go sit out on the porch for a while."
         "Right, ma'am. Give me a shout if you need anything."
         "Of course, of course."
         Moira had been Catherine's caretaker for almost a year now, and she recognized that it was alright to let the woman do many things on her own. While Catherine was by no means nimble, her age had not left her a frail as would be expected. After ninety years of living, the woman still needed little more than her cane to help her get around, and her mind was far from leaving her.
         After Catherine settled herself into the old, creaky rocking chair she kept on the back porch, she took a moment to admire the emerald ocean of grass that surrounded her small cottage. Despite its famous nickname, Ireland had an unfortunately small amount of places like these left, in her opinion. It had been quite a shock to return here, more than a quarter-century ago, and see how many vast swathes of green had been replaced by bustling towns and cities. Progress was progress, she supposed. But beauty was beauty. And what is more important?
         Her inner musings finished, she looked down at the sizable book in her lap. Running one of her hands over the cover, which depicted a small painting of a cottage not unlike her own, she read the single word printed in fine lettering near the top: Home.
         Catherine smiled.
         She flipped open the album, and began to go over the pictures nestled within. She skimmed through a few pages, every once in a while letting out a small chuckle at a funny face or a clearly unwilling photo participant. Then, she saw one that caught her eye.
         "Aww, now look at that..."
         As Catherine Madigan stared at that black-and-white photo of her and her husband as children, hand in hand, dressed up, and smiling at the camera, another smile spread its it way across her face, and a memory made its way across her mind.

         Everyone who knew them knew that Connall Madigan and Catherine Shea were meant for one another. Born only three weeks apart in the spring of 1926, they took a liking to each other from the beginning, and became nigh-inseparable as children. As other young ones were just learning from each other that all members of the opposite sex were icky and should be shunned accordingly, Connall and Catherine would spend hours together enjoying the simple pleasures of life: a frantic romp through a field made magical through their combined imaginations, a shared storybook underneath a tree on a warm day.
         "It'll be a damn travesty if those two don't fall in love, once their minds turn to such things," the adults of their small town of New Lodge used to say. But when adolescence came, it could hardly be said that the two 'fell' in love. The evolution of their relationship was so natural it was nearly imperceptible. Love had always been there, in the form that suited their age.
         One evening from this time was particularly clear in Catherine's memory. January 17th, 1940. The two had laid back against their favorite tree, a enormous ash (under which many a storybook had been shared over the years), arms around each other and a blanket over them to keep out the cold of an Irish evening. They had been there for hours, talking about anything that crossed their minds: school, friends, parents, church, growing up. As their conversation reached its fourth hour, and the setting sun reached the horizon, Catherine suggested that it was probably time for the two to head home. Connall considered this for a few moments, and then smirked.
         "We can go back to our houses, I guess...but I feel pretty at home right here."

         "Brought you some tea, ma'am. Made enough so that your guests would have some too, but it'll be cold by the time they arrive now I s'pose. I'll have to remember to put some more on later."
         Catherine's mind was brought back to the present by Moira's voice. The young woman placed the mug of tea on the small table in front of Catherine's chair.
         "Oh, thank you, dear. That's awfully thoughtful of you."
         "No trouble at all, ma'am. Everything alright out here?"
         "Just fine, thank you." She nodded toward the album in her lap with a smile. "Just living in the past, as we old folks tend to do."
That brought a small grin to Moira's face as she returned into the house.
As she waited for the tea to cool, Catherine moved her attention back to the album. Once again she flipped through several pages quickly, seeing nothing of extreme interest. She didn't remember what system she had used for organizing the photos in this album, if there had been one at all, but it definitely was not a chronological one; stoic, black-and-white portraits of relatives she barely knew were mixed in with polaroids of her grandchildrens' birthday parties. But once again, after a few minutes of skimming, she came across a picture that grabbed her full attention.
A teenaged Connall once again stood in the foreground, but this time it was with twenty or thirty other men of varying age. They were all dressed in work clothes, lined up and smiling at the camera. Behind them was the wooden shell of a half-rebuilt house. It took Catherine a moment to recall the story behind the picture, but when she did, the memory flooded quickly back into her mind, and the pain in her right leg began to return.

The effects of the punishing German Blitz attacks were felt across all of Britain during the early years of the Second World War, but Belfast was one of the most devastated. Seated in the North of Ireland, most thought it unlikely to be a target. As such, the city was left with very little to defend itself with when the bombers arrived in the fall of 1940.
Industrial areas were hit first, of course; and while this definitely had people in residential areas frightened, many figured they would be relatively safe so long as they stayed clear of factories and airstrips. Easter Tuesday of 1941 shattered this assumption. Belfast was hit once again, this time with the majority of the damage occurring in residential areas in the north of the city. New Lodge was one of these areas.
Connall, Catherine, and their families were walking home from evening mass together when the sirens began. In the ensuing chaotic rush of every person towards homes or shelters or nowhere in particular, Connall and Catherine were separated from their families. Their constant tight grip on each other's hands, however, refused to let them be separated from each other. The two shoved their way through the panicked streets, sprinting towards their best guess at the direction of home. They heard thunder resounding from other parts of the city; the threatening noise of it caused their feet to move even faster. When the planes came into sight overhead, however, they stopped dead in the sidewalk.
The two teens, along with several others, stared up at the invading aircraft with wide, frightened eyes. They knew they should be running, but the sight of these giant black birds over their once-peaceful town was so strange and otherworldly that it held them in place. It was only when the first building was shattered by an explosion, mere yards away from Connall and Catherine, that the hypnosis was broken.
Catherine was knocked out by the blast and ensuing fall, so her memories of the incident ended there. She only knew past that what the doctor and her family had told her: unconscious and with wooden shrapnel from the exploded building pierced through her right leg, she had been carried home by Connall and treated by the family's doctor as soon as the raid had passed. The damage had been done, however; the muscles in her leg would be permanently damaged.
She did remember one thing about the period in between, however; laying in a cot in the basement of the Shea house, she had faded into the conscious world, albeit just barely, several times. But every time she did, she saw Connall sitting by her side, a worried look on his face, and his hand in hers. What little perception she had at the time recognized that she was safe.
That she was home.

Catherine returned to the present once again, reaching to the table to pick up her tea. After several long sips, she returned the mug to the table and readjusted herself in her rocker. She checked her watch; still about 20 minutes to pass until the couple had said they would arrive. She didn't mind, of course. Sitting out here in the cool Irish breeze was one of the many simple pleasures that Connall had showed her could be enjoyed immensely with the right attitude.
Moira came out to the porch once again to check on her. After Catherine once again reassured her that she was just fine, Moira made her way towards the door of the house before Catherine stopped her.
"Hold on, dear..."
"Yes, ma'am?"
"I was thinking...I'm sure I can handle showing our guests around the house on my own. And it's already late afternoon anyways. Why don't you run along for the day? You've been working so hard all week," Catherine said, with a smile and the unconditional joviality that can only come with old age, "You deserve some time to yourself without this old lady holding you down."
A look of slight surprise came over Moira's face.
"Are you sure, ma'am? I just put the tea on, and-"
"Oh, come now, dear," Catherine chuckled, "I'm not so old I've forgotten how to prepare some tea. Run along. Go enjoy yourself."
The surprised look was now replaced with a grin, and Moira nodded.
"Thank you very much, ma'am, I will."
As Moira left, Catherine resumed her journey through the past. The next photo that sparked a memory was one of a much older Connall, with both a half-healed black eye and a smile on his face, sitting at a table in small kitchen. On the table in front of him was a large, wooden birdhouse, in the middle of being painted. Catherine was no doubt on the other side of the camera.
The old woman sighed with a mixture of nostalgic happiness and heartache. She remembered that week very well.

"What the fuck do you want from me, Cat?! I'm not a bloody miracle worker! I barely bring in enough money to keep the lights on, and you want to start spending it on parties every time the parents come around? We just can't do that!"
"For Christ sake, Connall, it's our parents! They raised us, they helped us get over here in the first place, and they're going to spend all that money to get to the country for a week, and you wanna treat them like nobody? That ain't right, Connall, and you damn well know it!"
The fight had been raging for nearly half an hour now, and it was only brought to an end when Connall had to leave for work, slamming the door behind him. Catherine, left alone with her anger, collapsed into a kitchen chair. People in neighboring apartments might start complaining about the noise soon, she thought, but she didn't care. She was too angry and flustered to care. Connall had never yelled at her like that before, and vice-versa. But she supposed it had been a long time coming.
Nothing had seemed to go their way since they had moved to America. The land they had heard held so much opportunity for people like them had found countless ways to be cruel and unwelcoming to them once they arrived. They had both worked tirelessly to try to make as much money as possible, but whatever they could get was never enough to improve their life. The only apartment they could afford was dingy and small. All things considered, life was anything but good. And now, sitting alone in their tiny kitchen, frustrated tears rolling down her face, Catherine wondered what would become of their relationship because of all this. Their love had gotten them through everything so far, but how much could it possibly take?
After wiping her tears and gathering herself, Catherine spent the rest of the day cleaning up the apartment, trying her best to make it look as nice as possible. While she did this, her mind was continuously turning, trying to put together what she would say to her husband when he returned. Would it be an apology? An angered chastising? Would she talk to him at all?
When Connall walked through the door that night, however, Catherine was immediately struck speechless by his appearance. His favorite work shirt was torn in several places, his left eye was blackened, his arms were bruised, and his blood-stained right hand was covering a shallow but sizable cut on his side. After staring at him in shock for what felt like an hour, Catherine rushed over and led him to the kitchen, helping him into a chair. Connall groaned in pain as he eased into the seated position, and Catherine quickly got to work gathering anything she could think of to help treat him. After bandaging the wound on his side, she finally managed to find her voice again.
         "Connall, dear...what in the hell happened to you?"
The man, whose gaze had been angled downward since he had sat down, now turned to look at his wife with sad eyes.
"Mugged...they...ah, damn." Connall winced from the pain, then continued to speak."They took all the money I had."
"Jesus...you poor thing."
Catherine wet a rag in cold water and dabbed it gently across her husband's face in an attempt to ease some of the pain. Her free left hand grabbed hold of Connall's right, and squeezed tightly. She thought she sensed a kind of confusion from him at the way she was treating him, and her suspicions were confirmed when he suddenly, though not harshly, moved the hand holding the rag away from his face so he could speak.
"Cat...I'm damn sorry for what happened this morning. I had no right to treat you like that. And now I've lost my whole damn pay for the week...I know you've gotta be upset, so you don't have to do all this. I can-"
"Hey now. None of that nonsense." Catherine interjected. "There are no hard feelings in this house. You're home now, my love. And I'm gonna take good care of you."
Connall greeted these words with a weak but unquestionably happy smile, and allowed his wife to resume her treatment. The two sat there in silence, hand in hand, for several minutes. While Catherine was in the middle of cooling away the pain in Connall's right arm, however, he finally broke the silence.
"...I think this weekend I'm gonna try and finish that birdhouse I was making for you."

Catherine reached the end of the album soon afterwards. After closing it up with a knowing smile, she checked her watch again. Five minutes until her guests were to arrive. Catherine finished her tea, propped herself back onto her feet with her cane, and, album in hand, returned into the house. She moved over to the mantel once more, and replaced the album to it's original location. Stepping back, she observed the two framed photos that flanked the album. The first, on its left side, was of her and Connall, both nearly sixty at that point, standing at the gate of the cottage. Both were beaming with happiness, ready to make a home out of their new house in their old country. The second, on the right, had been taken a mere three years ago. Connall lay in a hospital bed, surrounded by balloons with large '87's on them, and his wife, children, and grandchildren on both sides. And even though he must have surely known that he did not have much time left, there was no hint of sadness in the smile that adorned his face. He may not have been in his own house, but he was definitely at home.
Catherine leaned in for a closer look at both pictures, and when she saw what she was looking for, she couldn't help but smile.
Her and her husband were hand in hand in both.
Hearing a car pull up to the gate, Catherine tore herself from her memories and went to greet her guests. They were just stepping out of the vehicle when she walked out the door, and Catherine got her first look at the potential new owners of her home. The young man looked a bit Irish himself, fair-skinned and with shoulder-length blonde hair, not unlike Connall's when he was younger. The young woman accompanying him, darker-skinned with long, beautiful black hair, slid her hand into his and held it tightly as they moved towards the gate. And as Catherine watched the two approach, both hand in hand and staring wide-eyed at the cottage before them, the cool Irish breeze carried two words from his mouth to her ears:
"It's perfect."
Catherine smiled.
These two had found their home.