Ireland.

The scene played back like a film reel, with sparkling flickers of sunlight obstructing her vision, warming her skin. The grass was even more green than she remembered it, and what were sounds like canned laughter filled her ears, overwhelming her. Jane felt herself swell with tears, and she cried out for mom. Everything was so tall from her height so far down; it was scary. But it wasn't long before loving, protective arms scooped her up and held her close. "Aw, it's okay, dolly." her mother cooed, "Don't cry."

Jane couldn't distinguish her mother's face, but she could tell when she spoke that a big pearly grin matched her tone, "You are my life."

And then suddenly, black.

Jane woke up, tired eyes fixed on the long twisting, tangling crack on her living room ceiling. A sigh of annoyance bounced off her lips; it was the attack of the post-nap migraine. She sat upright before slinking into the comfort of her couch. The soft material coating the cushion grounded Jane for a moment while she came to; her palms stroked the velour, creating imprints. She still struggled to believe her mother was gone. Her fingers rose from the couch to pinch the bridge of her nose. Advil, she needed Advil.

She looked down at the little black book on the edge of her side table. Jane noted how it idly waited to be opened by anyone who would take the time to flip through its contents. It belonged to her late mother, and Jane chalked it up as an old diary when cleaning out her home. It was impossible to resist having an intimate fragment of the woman she loved, yet, she felt as though she was disrespecting her by reading through it. It was a tug of war between her feelings of sadness and evading privacy.

Jane wished she could talk to her brother about it; pick his brain on what the moral thing to do was, but it had been so long since they had spoken, and their relationship was nothing like how it used to be. She felt a sense of sadness there, too. Her mother was the family matriarch, and because of this, the family would religiously congregate when she called. They were happy memories, but it felt they only did because of her, rather than through a genuine desire to be together. He was always so busy with his work and family life, Jane understood why her brother Henry was otherwise preoccupied at times. She'd leave him alone, and when her mother pestered her about calling him, she'd say, "No, ma, I haven't talked to Henry about it yet. We all know he's a busy guy, so I don't wanna bug him.", "Nah, his life is a whirlwind, and he'll text me when he has time, I'm sure.", "Don't worry, don't worry, I'll tell him everything when we get together next!"

Jane knew it was avoidant of her to say, but in truth, a polite shyness grew the more she and her brother spent time apart.

It's been said that when a family member dies, it'll bring people either closer together or drive them further apart.

Jane fell so deeply into her own grief that she had forgotten that maybe Henry needed someone, too. He was so close with their mother, coming over to help clean and cook as she got older, the little things. More than Jane did at times, admittedly, it was hard watching her mom go. He showed up with altruism in mind because he loved his mother, but if Jane and Henry had anything in common, it was that. There was no fight when she passed, and the two understood it was because their mother was meticulously aware of how families can be when someone dies and involves an inheritance. Their mother was always a step ahead, distributing twenty grand between them and assigning her material things to each with good reason. When it came to the estate, the siblings were fair-minded enough to split it both ways, even with their own opinions dictating otherwise.

It had been seven months since they sold it and parted their separate ways. The holidays came and went, and the two all shared the awkward, estranged, Merry Christmas texts and spent it apart. It made Jane miss mom so much more, and she stared harder now at the little black book that sat right in front of an old family photo.

The woman rose from her seat and walked straight to her medicine cabinet, and filled a glass of water, praying the headache away. She tilts her head back and takes a swig, washing the Advil down.

When she closes the cabinet, she looked hard into the mirror in front of her. Jane was around the age that her mother was when she had her. Signs of aging were subtle, soft creases under the eyes, smile lines, and elevens formed from furrowing her eyebrows too much. Her mother used to tease her for that, calling her Frankenstein because her eyebrows would lodge themselves perfectly straight on her brow when she was upset.

It was rare that, around her mother at least, the Frankenstein face ever made an appearance. Things were so different now, and her heart felt weighted with a feeling of sorrow that she couldn't say with certainty could ever really go away.

As she re-entered the living room, she walked with fortitude in her stride, and a shaking hand reached for the black notebook that rested gathering dust. As she held the paperback in her hands, her thumb traced it, feeling the smoothness of the cover beneath it. She investigated its outside for a moment longer before opening it up; her heart-rate rose as she glossed through each page. Its contents were filled with whimsy, and each page had doodles. Jane felt tears threatening as she read passages of her mother recounting their infamous family trips. Playful add-ons of vacation shenanigans felt more bittersweet than nostalgic. Oh, and how the family lived for them. Their mother was fun and warm to give a brief description. She was always taking them on story-like adventures to distant lands, whether it was a fanciful cruise during storm season or a wild trip to India. Her mother and her brother had destinations in mind of where they wanted to go, and they did their very best to make it happen.

Jane's mother was always asking her what dream vacation destination that she had in mind, however, it wasn't until a few years ago that she had an answer: Ireland.

She and her brother were busier than when they were kids, and he had a family of his own now, so getting together was easy back then, and of course, they all lived under the same roof. But once he got married, had a few kids, and their mom’s health started to decline, there simply was no time.

On the very last page of her mother's notebook was a passage she wrote before she passed. It was short and sweet. Written there, in that old familiar messy penmanship Jane always ragged on her for, was a message addressed to her kids. It was indescribable what reading it Jane felt like. Her teardrops fell and mixed with the ink, creating dark-colored wrinkle marks in the paper.

"Jane, Henry, my beautiful children. I miss you all so dearly, but it is far after visiting hours as I write this. I know we had our get-togethers when I called upon you, but it made me so sad to see how estranged you've become. I hoped we'd have enough time to fit in one more family trip, but it seems the doctors are trying less and less as time goes on. I can read between the lines. It's okay. I'm not sad, it is your time when it is your time, but I do have one small thing, a request. For whichever sibling reads it. Go to Ireland together. You got together for me, but it was never solely me who made those trips and visits memorable. It was Henry's overplanning OCD, his natural sense of direction so that we were never lost, and Jane's relentless enthusiasm that made doing even tedious tasks so fun. You made those trips, not me. Please take the money I'll share with you, separate from the estate, and go to Ireland together. I promise you won't regret it," and written below, "You both are my life, and I will always love you, Mom."

Jane finished reading and felt awareness return to her hands which were still erratically shaking. She scrambled into the pockets of her sweatpants for her phone, and she flipped through her contacts immediately, searching for her brothers. She began texting him but stopped, feeling as though he would appreciate the sentiment, but was ultimately preoccupied with his work as he usually was. This thought was a habit for Jane, her way of being avoidant; it was a lazy and selfish habit. She had to think of love, however, not her comfort zone. She loved her brother and wished they were closer, but it couldn't just happen. Jane had to take the leap.

Fingers steadily exited from the chat pane, pressing dial instead. Jane expected it to ring into oblivion, maybe to even hit a wall at a packed voicemail box.

But it rang twice, and the sound of Henry's voice- not recorded voice, real voice, was on the other end.

"Jane, hey! Long time no talk. How are you?" Henry's tone was upbeat as it had always been. There was no fear of confrontation or belittlement for being so absent all these months; she felt welcomed. It felt warm. It reminded her of her mother- no, she was both their mother- he reminded her of their mother.

"I'm okay... I'm actually great." Jane's pensive face slowly turned to a grin, "I miss you a lot."

There's a moment of silence on his end, enough to make her palm sweat as it held the phone to her ear.

"I miss you, too, Jane. I'm happy to hear your voice," he said sincerely, "I've been meaning to give you a call, actually. What's up?"

Oh, her heart felt a mighty weight of anxiety lift at his acceptance and mutual feeling. It inspired courage for her to ask her question.

"Well, uh, Henry, you know how I've wanted to go to Ireland for some time. And, you know, with our busy lives... and then with mom passing-" Jane resisted the lump forming in her throat, "I was hoping maybe soon we could figure out when we could take a trip together. A-and you can bring Karla and the kids? I think we would have a lot of fun."

Henry pondered this for a moment, "Hmmm... I'm not sure when my schedule is free next. It's hard to say when." he mused aloud.

"I... I understand." Jane sighed defeated. She noticed then she was falling back to her own negative headspace, but she paused. No- for this, for her mom, she would stand her ground, "Listen- I- it was mom's last wish, her intention with our twenty grand. I found a message in her notebook and- and it's really important to her!" she carried on, "And it's important to me, too."

Henry heard the complexity in her tone and her perseverance. He was used to the passivity of his sister and realized the importance.

"It's that important to you, huh?" he repeated back.

"Very." she nodded.

There's a moment of silence and the sound of clicking and clacking on a keyboard. This was Henry googling flights.

"Ireland, right? Where?" he inquired, and Jane took no time in responding.

"Dublin," she said, feeling hopeful.

"Dublin, huh? I went there on a business trip once, they're riddled with cobblestone streets. Do you have the right shoes?"

"Um, I think so." she nodded.

"Good," he smiled through the phone, "I think I do, too."