Luton

I met an 80 plus year old gentleman in Luton, who moved here from Ireland by way of a passenger train. He jumped off nearly breaking his toes with not a pence in his pocket. It would be a better life, he thought. A future for his Irish gypsy bride, too. She was a jealous one. Always watching like a hawk to see if there were any flirty false moves. "I can't help it," he told me she'd say. He, on the other hand, stood proudly at 6'2" when men at the pub so obviously admired her beauty. This Irish gentle giant had boxed his way through a rebellious youth until they met. Indentations and scars. A crooked nose. Though fighting was quite lucrative in gypsy world, his wife wouldn't have it. Can you blame her? She was tough and devoted. And all her insecurities spilled out over tea and then beer. Time passed in Luton - the stories repeating each time with a brighter twinkle in the old man's eye. When the sun started to set, we both realized it was a miracle to remember the sky blue.