There is something about the voice of Dolores O’Riordan that makes me stop what I’m doing. That brings me to a halt yet makes my mind race. That transports me to age 17 to a time when my naive heart was lost and broken, and I thought any chance of waking up happy once again was over. I cried my eyes out on the plant green carpet of my teenage bedroom with No Need to Argue playing on repeat. I’ll get over you. I’ll get over you. Yes, Dolores. Sing it again. Dolores gave me hope that I’d push through. To what? I wasn’t sure. But I hung on in large part thanks to Dolores (an Irish treasure that ironically years later would leave this world too soon) and those words and that album.

I was lucky enough to see The Cranberries in concert one night long ago in a past Las Vegas life. It was likely sometime in 2009 after the band had gotten back together. From wall to wall, each of us in attendance was tuned in, mind, body, and spirit, almost as if we all had a story to reflect on in which Dolores and her talent saved us. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I was subconsciously rowing through images and emotions from my past. Of every time someone close to me let me down. Put me last. Shut me out. Took me for granted. Tears slow rolled down my face from the first note Dolores sang through the encore. And I can’t say for sure, but I imagine that everyone in that concert hall was crying.

Day three of home confinement in France. The sun is blaring like it’s the month of May. I pulled our Quechua tent out of the garage and plopped it into the backyard amid the jungle of weeds that make me crazy because I actually think they’re edible makings for a nice salad (they’re not – we just need to mow). The inside tent lining was full of sand from one of last year’s beaches, so Nina and her posse of poupées had to patiently wait outside while I brushed and cleaned in preparation for a morning outside. After I got Nina her list of requests (two blankets, a wash cloth to clean baby Kiki who had peed all over herself, her bicycle, and a chair), I left the sliding door open and went inside. The remnants of an early morning in the kitchen were sprawled on each counter, the kitchen table, and floor. I had a mental list of work-related items I wanted to knock out before mid-morning Eastern time. A voice in my head was reminding me to get another run in, though my calves were singing another tune. I missed my parents. I missed the beach – but all Morbihan beaches have been closed during this unprecedented shutdown. I wanted a magic pause button to freeze everyone but myself. I’d sleep and read and drink and dance and run and repeat without worrying about any timeline or geographic restriction or attitude or audience. Any language or meeting or caprice or question after question after question. As I stared at the mess, as the exhaustion in me burned my eyes, as a wave of thoughts about this confinement and this virus and this buy-in-bulk bin of uncertainty (THIS UNCERTAINTY that was so palpable at that moment that it stood in the kitchen staring me down), I grabbed my phone. Made all the necessary clicks. Turned on the speakers and listened.

Understand the things I say. Don’t turn away from me.

I wonder what intention, if any, was behind Dolores making those lyrics and Ode to My Family the first track on No Need to Argue. Whatever the case, I hear you Dolores. Heard. Mother fucking HEARD.

Took the work day off. Tucked that peanut in for her nap. Thawing out a pack of beef to make burgers for dinner because that’s what Americans do when it’s nice outside. And going to put on my running tights (with my attestation in my pocket) and head back to the woods.