I always felt at home at my Nana’s house. Situated in an idyllic Irish inlet, its expansive, tinted glass windows let in the staggeringly vibrant countryside in violent clarity. The floor got hot too. Its ebony slate would grab the sun and not let go, and I, a barefoot 12 year old, would yelp in pain. The whole house was stuffed with decadent Victorian furniture, dwarfed by the rainbows her Waterford crystal menagerie would scatter around the room. The cavernous sunroom was my mental playhouse—sitting there I could work my way through a book in day, comforted by the softness of my family and the warmth of an overstuffed couch.

After she died, it was hard to come back. It was cloudy on that day, as it usually is in Ireland. The sunlit hall was dark, and the slate floor was as unforgiving as ever--this time cold as the frigid water outside. Now 15, I felt as if the life was being sucked out of me by those tiles.

That house was very old. Before my grandparents bought it as a summer home in the 90s, it was run as a restaurant. Going back any further than that is difficult, as in rural West Cork the past either becomes a story or is buried under the craggy, thistle covered hills. I felt with icy clarity that the house’s many stories had disappeared. Being there didn’t have the emotional effect I expected: like the slate floor on an overcast day, the soothing warmth was simply gone. It didn’t seem to hit my mom too hard either. She cheerfully made conversation with the people we rented it to, all smiles. And she’s usually a pretty emotional person.

“I love what you’ve done with the place” she trilled, remarking on the new, harsher décor. Gone was the faded grandeur of the musty chaise lounges, spindly marble coffee tables, and ornate lamps. The new look wasn’t too remarkable, to be honest.

“Not bad,” the renters replied, “and you?”

“Just fine,” she said. I halfheartedly echoed that sentiment.

The place just didn’t feel like home anymore. We made small talk for a bit, and then cruised the three miles around the harbor back to my Aunt’s, feeling subtly empty.

My aunt’s house stood in stark contrast to my Nana’s. The interior was chic and smooth, somewhat earthy. Her three building compound was precariously perched over the frothing surf, hidden from the road by cliff walls. The boats bobbed on her pontoon at the mouth of her tree lined oasis, perpetually in shade. As always, it was full of life. Yet the scene from her window was barren: my Nana’s house, across the water.

My aunt is a bit of a social butterfly. Staying with her is like living in Mr. Rodger’s neighborhood: people drop by constantly, always armed with casual conversation. As usual, someone was around to greet me and inquire about my health.

“Just fine,” I intoned. And to my surprise, it was true.

That night, we had our first Ireland sing along. This is a normal thing there. After dinner, everyone’ll get out a guitar and their spirit will soar high into the night. Like most kids, I never much appreciated them--we used to call it “drunk-singing.” I was always more excited to curl up with a book, safe with my family nearby. There was something grown-up about the sing-alongs I just didn’t get. So, when the adults began to gather around the table and arrange an assortment of instruments, I was far from enthusiastic. But it wasn’t like I had anything better to do.

My aunt’s dining room table was lit by a hanging incandescent bulb. Its light was a campfire, radiating into the tar black night. And like cavemen, they huddled around it.

“What’s first,” my dad asked, “Bruce?” A murmur of ascension made its way around the table. And so, gathered far away from the ancient uncertainty of the murky dark outside, the singing began.

Feeling homeless, I listened to the emphatically out of tune renditions of Bruce Springsteen and Simon and Garfunkel classics. Rosy faces surrounded the table, suffused with warm light. There was joy in the air. As I looked around at the glowing cheeks and smiling faces, I felt something new. I think that was the moment I stopped feeling quite so empty.

Something primal was in the room with us, urging us to sing louder and longer, to scream against the dark of the night. We protested the encroaching darkness and the void. As we swept through every song we knew, we were filled with a sense of togetherness. And we knew that our union of voices could make a home.

For the first time, I was part of it. The primal thing had curled up in the house shaped hole in my heart, leaving me feeling full.

Ever since I was little, I’d get asked to play at the sing-alongs; this one was no exception. I got my usual invitation. A curt “no, thanks,” would have been my normal response. But this time, I got out my guitar and played along.

Suddenly I found myself enjoying sing-alongs. Good thing, because you can’t throw a Johnny Cash songbook in west cork without hitting one. We went to three or four on that vacation and between each I got better.

When I played, I could feel the music in a way I never could before. It was fiery yet soothing. In a pub called Nottages, my guitar radiated a blaze of light as the song flowed out of me. A family formed around the melody, and a nation around the verse. As the tune went on I felt the same way I did when I was twelve, reading on the overstuffed sofa in the sunbathed sauna of the sitting room. I felt at home.

That was the last day of our trip, and needless to say I was sad to go. Leaving Ireland felt like a betrayal—it was wrong to go without seeing Nana. But all the same, we packed our bags and suffered the five hour drive to the nearest Airport in Shannon.

On the plane ride back to America, I felt no regret. Maybe it was hard visiting my Nana’s house after all. It wasn’t just her loss that bothered me--I felt as if a piece of me that I left in that house was gone forever: my sense of home. Ireland felt a little bit empty without her being in it, just as our hearts felt empty without her. But that void could be filled by something new. On that plane ride I worked my way through a book in a day, comforted by the soft security of knowing that wherever I go, I can pick up a guitar and find home